Hate
by LittleFairy78
Summary: A series of hate crimes in Santa Barbara leads Shawn and Gus to investigate the cases to help the police. And soon they are forced to confront something that in over 20 years of friendship has never been an issue between them. Rated for violence later on.
1. Prologue

**Hate**

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: A series of hate crimes in Santa Barbara leads Shawn to investigate a group of doubtful ideological background. They are dangerous, and they show no hesitation. And as the investigation progresses, it forces Shawn and Gus to confront something that in over twenty years of friendship has never been an issue between them.

Rated for some fairly descriptive acts of physical violence in later chapters.

Author's Note: There's going to be a lot of ugly things happening in this story. A lot of people are going to say ugly things, too. And by ugly I mean the really bad kind of ugly.

All groups and organizations in this story are my invention and don't exist (if groups of the same name exist, it's coincidence and I missed them in my research). I did however research racist groups and organizations. The results were kind of scary, I have to admit.

It's not the intention of this story to offend anybody. Especially the language used in the story isn't always nice or politically correct (not to mention not the kind of language I'd use in a conversation. Or ever), but I think it's necessary to keep the story as real as possible. It doesn't reflect my personal opinion, I just thought it important to point that out.

In the beginning it will mostly be crime-scene descriptions, but there will be some pretty ugly stuff coming in the later chapters. Especially chapter 9 is the reason why I upped the rating for this story.

This is another plot bunny that has been nagging at me for a while now. Actually, since the "He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…oooops, he's dead"-Episode (and seriously, who makes up those titles? Do they get paid by the letter?). I just loved the scene where Shawn leaves Gus standing in that tanning salon under the pretence that he's here about an appointment.

I actually like it that the fact that Gus is black is never really made a topic on the show. But that one scene just gave me this plot bunny about Shawn actually not always being consciously aware of Gus' skin colour. Which is an endearing trait in their friendship, but might get them into trouble if they get involved with the wrong crowd. This is my take on what happens once they get a case where it suddenly gets really important what skin colour Gus has. So this is where the story comes from.

Proceed at your own rist, you have been warned: this is not a kiddie story. Some really bad stuff is going to go down. It's already finished and will be posted in parts, one update per week I think.

Enjoy!

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**Prologue – End of Innocence**

_Santa Barbara, 1986_

_Henry Spencer was on his way home from work when he passed the playground. He drove past the playground every day on his way to and from work, and most days he didn't even pay a lot of atte__ntion to it._

_Of course he knew that Shawn and Gus often spent their afternoon on that particular playground, but he figured that at eight years, they were old enough to do so without supervision. Especially since he knew that with all the nonsense they came up during their play, parental intervention and supervision was the last thing Shawn and Gus wanted. And if they managed to play whatever games they were playing without breaking bones or hazarding their own or somebody else's lives, Henry was perfectly all right with it._

_He didn't know what caused him to take a closer look that day. He didn't really believe in the concept of parental intuition, but for some reason today of all days he didn't just drive past the playground. He slowed the car down a little so that he could catch a glimpse of the playground through the gaps between the bushes and trees surrounding it._

_A second later his foot was on the brake and he stopped the car._

_He hadn't been able to see much since it was late spring and the bushes around the playground were in full bloom, but the little he had seen had been enough for him to decide to take a closer look._

_Henry got out of the car and approached the entrance to the playground. The closer he got, the surer he became that he hadn't been mistaken._

_At the far end of the playground, behind the monkey bars, was a group of youths who were far too old to be on the playground in the first place. Three kids of about thirteen years wearing jeans and t-shirts were crowded around two much smaller boys._

_Shawn and Gus._

_One of the thugs was holding Shawn back by his arms, easily grabbing both Shawn's wrist in one of his hands and holding him back by the hair with the other. Shawn was bleeding from the nose, but the guy only seemed intend on holding him back, at least for the moment. _

_One of the other teens was holding Gus by the arms, and just as Henry entered the playground, the third boy punched Gus in the stomach._

_Henry heard Gus give a muffled yelp of pain, he heard Shawn yell something and at the same moment he started running._

_"Hey you! Stop that right now!"_

_The three teens spun around when they heard the yell. Seeing a police officer in uniform come running towards them tore them out of their momentary stupor rather quickly, and they took off immediately. The one holding Shawn back gave him a rough shove towards the ground, then the three of them ran off towards the other end of the playground where they climbed over the low fence and vanished down the street._

_For a moment, Henry contemplated going after them._

_But only for a moment. They were three, and they wouldn't stay together while running away from him. And by the time he had reached the road, they would probably have long been gone from sight. Besides, he needed to make sure that Shawn and Gus were all right first._

_Henry's first instinct was to run over towards Shawn first. The father in him wanted to run to Shawn first. But Shawn seemed to recover quickly from being roughly pushed to the ground and was already scrambling back to his feet. Gus was the one who had been sucker-punched by a guy nearly twice his size, and he was the one who was still kneeling on the ground struggling for breath._

_Henry ran over towards his son's friend and knelt down next to him, putting a hand on Gus' back. Gus' immediate reaction was to flinch away from the touch. The reaction was so instinctive and unusual that it shocked Henry quite a bit._

_"Gus, it's all right. It's me."_

_After a moment, Gus brought his head up a little and looked at Henry from eyes that were narrowed to slits from the pain. Tears were running down Gus' face, and since Henry knew how much eight year old boys hated crying, the punch must have hurt pretty badly._

_He rubbed his hand up and down Gus' back in a soothing motion._

_"It's all right Gus, they're gone. How badly does it hurt?"_

_"It's okay," Gus muttered bravely and slowly started to straighten up. Henry helped him get back on his feet, slowly because it was obvious that Gus was still short of breath and hurting quite a bit. Finally, Gus was standing again, still slightly doubled over, and Henry quickly picked him up and carried him over towards one of the nearby picnic tables. He sat Gus down on the tabletop and put a hand against the back of the boy's neck. Gus was still shaking slightly, though he was trying hard to hide it._

_"Can you breathe?"_

_Gus nodded and wiped a hand across his face._

_"Do you think you have to throw up?"_

_His question was answered with a shake of Gus' head this time, and Henry squeezed Gus' neck once._

_"I'll be back in a moment."_

_Henry turned around and looked for Shawn._

_His son had gotten back to his feet by now, both his knees below the hem of his shorts scratched from being pushed to the ground so roughly. His nose had stopped bleeding, and there were tear tracks on his pale and slightly dirt-smudged face. Henry went over towards Shawn and crouched down in front of him._

_"Are you all right?"_

_Shawn nodded and tried to wipe at his face, wincing as the back of his hand wiped against his nose._

_"Dad, we didn't do anything."_

_"I thought as much. Come on, let's get you over to Gus and then the two of you can tell me what happened."_

_But Shawn didn't make any move to start walking, so Henry picked him up as well and carried him over towards the picnic table. Sitting Shawn down beside Gus, Henry pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Shawn._

_"Here, hold that against your nose. And tilt your head forward."_

_Shawn did as he was told and Henry turned back towards Gus. With some relief he noticed that his son's friend was breathing more easily and didn't seem in just as much pain anymore._

_"How often did the guy punch you?"_

_"Twice." Gus said. "In the stomach. Then you came."_

_Henry pulled Gus' shirt out of his pants and gently pulled it up. There was no visible injury, but Henry was sure that Gus would start developing a big bruise soon._

_"Does it still hurt?"_

_Gus nodded, albeit slowly. "A little."_

_"Okay. You tell me immediately if you feel sick, all right?"_

_Gus nodded and Henry sat down on the bench in front of the picnic table so that he was facing the two boys. He looked at Shawn._

_"Did they hit you, too?"_

_Shawn shook his head. "Not really. Got and elbow in the nose when that one guy tried to grab me."_

_His voice sounded nasal, as if he had a bad cold, and his nose was already swelling a little. Henry decided that maybe a visit to the doctor's office was in order for both of the boys, just to make sure. In Shawn's case because of the nose, and in Gus' case because Winnie would have his head if he didn't take the kid to the doctor after he was punched by some older kids._

_"What happened here?"_

_"We didn't do anything," Shawn sniffed and raised his head slightly to look at his father. "We were here playing Cowboys and Indians when those guys suddenly came to the playground. They were fooling around, you know, pushing each other around, smoking cigarettes and yelling stuff. We tried to ignore them, but they came over towards us and started saying pretty nasty things."_

_Henry frowned. "What nasty things?"_

_Instead of answering, Shawn exchanged a look with Gus. Or tried to, because Gus was not really meeting his eyes._

_"Shawn, what nasty things?"_

_Shawn shrugged awkwardly. "They said that I shouldn't be playing with somebody like Gus. And that if we played Cowboys and Indians, I had to be the cowboy because only white people could be cowboys. And then they called Gus names."_

_A sinking feeling settled in Henry's stomach. When Shawn had befriended Gus, he had known that this day might come. He and Margaret had talked about what they could do if at one point Shawn was confronted with somebody attacking Gus because of his skin colour. But it was one thing to talk these things through in theory. It was something completely else to witness a bunch of teenage thugs try to roughen Shawn and Gus up because of it. Damn it, they were just kids! Shawn and Gus didn't care about these things, so why did somebody else force them to?_

_"What names Shawn?"_

_Shawn shrugged and worried his lower lip with his teeth. When he didn't answer, Henry cupped his son's chin with his hand and waited until Shawn met his eyes._

_"What names did they call Gus?"_

_Shawn swallowed. "They called him a nigger. A stupid and dirty nigger."_

_At Shawn's side, Gus flinched as his friend said the word, even though Shawn hadn't said it much louder than in a whisper. Henry put his hand on Gus' leg and gave it a small squeeze._

_"Did you know any of them?"_

_Shawn shook his head, as did Gus beside him. But Henry wasn't so easily satisfied with that answer._

_"Listen boys, I know that you don't want to get into trouble with these thugs again. And I know that you're scared they will know you told on them. But it's really important you tell me if you know them. Right now, they're probably just a couple of bullies who hang out with the wrong crowd and listen to the crap they're fed by their friends. That's bad enough. But they're crossing a line if they decide to beat up eight year old boys. That's no small matter. It's something that needs to be brought under control before something serious happens."_

_Shawn shook his head again. "I don't know who they are. They're too old to be in our school. I…there's a bunch of guys who sometimes hang out at the arcade."_

_"And they're part of them?"_

_Shawn nodded, as did Gus._

_"But you don't know their names."_

_Two heads shook simultaneously._

_Henry slowly nodded and got up from the bench. He knew how useless it would be to start looking for the thugs without a name and only a place where they occasionally hung out. But he'd definitely try. And he'd not let Shawn or Gus anywhere near that arcade again in the foreseeable future. Not until he had assured himself of what kind of kids were hanging around there._

_"All right boys. Let's go home. Are you all right, Gus?"_

_Gus nodded as he climbed down from the picnic table. "Yes Mr. Spencer. I'm just a little queasy."_

_"Let me know if you feel sick, all right?"_

_Gus nodded and slowly started to walk towards the entrance of the playground. Henry put a hand on Shawn's shoulder._

_"Come on buddy, let's go to the car."_

_But instead of hopping down from the bench, Shawn looked up at his father._

_"Why did they say those things about Gus?"_

_Henry sighed and leaned against the picnic table beside his son. "That's hard to say, Shawn. Kids of that age, they mostly don't really know yet what it is they're talking about. They're just repeating stuff they heard somewhere else without understanding it."_

_"But they weren't just talking."_

_Henry nodded and put a hand on Shawn's shoulder. "No, they did more than that. And that's a reason to worry."_

_"But why would they care? I mean, they don't even know me or Gus, and even if they don't like black people, why should they care who I play with?"_

_"It's not that easy, Shawn. First of all, it's always easier to pick on a weaker opponent. I doubt they'd have badmouthed a kid their age, or an adult."_

_Shawn shrugged. "But still it shouldn't matter."_

_Henry nodded. "You're right. It shouldn't matter. But to people who don't like others because of their skin color, their religion or where they come from it does matter. And they want other people to see things the same way they do. They often make it sound so simple and logical that it's easy to get sucked into what they're trying to convince you of. We talked about that, remember?"_

_Shawn nodded. "Yeah, I do."_

_"Good." Henry squeezed his son's shoulder. "You just keep that in mind. I know what those guys did doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you. They only see what they believe to be right, and they can't understand that somebody else might see things differently. They don't have any respect for other people, their opinion or way of life. And that's one of the worst things that can happen, losing your respect for others. You always need to meet people with respect, and you can't judge them by their appearance, their skin color or their origin. When I get called in on a case, I can't make up my mind about who is guilty, who is lying and who not by their skin color. I need to find out about them and their motivations. It's the same in real life, Shawn. You always need to judge a person by their character. By their actions and not by their appearance. Do you understand that?"_

_Shawn nodded. "I do. But that doesn't help if those guys come back."_

_Henry sighed. "No, it won't. But I'll try to find them before that happens, I promise."_

_"If you do, are they going to go to prison?"_

_Henry detected a hopeful tone in his son's voice and affectionately ruffled his hair. "No, probably not. But it's not always the best to just put people into prison. Sometimes, it's much better to try and make them see that they're wrong."_

_"Can you do that?"_

_"Me?" Henry shook his head. "I don't think that I can. But there are people who might be able to help. How about for now we go home, get the two of you patched up and into clean clothes, and then I'll make dinner?"_

_Shawn nodded and hopped down from the picnic table. As they started walking towards Gus, who was nervously lingering near the entrance of the playground, Henry noticed that Shawn was sticking close to his side as they walked over towards Gus. With a sad smile, he put an arm around Shawn's shoulder and led him out of the playground and towards the car._

_He really wished he could have spared his son the realization that not all people saw Gus simply for the kid that he was. If not forever, then at least for a little while longer._

_But now this had happened, and he needed to find out how to deal with it. And trying to find those three thugs was the first thing on his list._

_Once Shawn and Gus were securely seated in the car, Henry started the engine and drove home._

* * *

So much for the prologue. Chapter one is soon to follow. And I've got to warn you (again, lol) - this story is my longest story yet. Over 100.000 words. Not many more chapters than the previous stories, but longer chapters. Not that I think you'll complain.

Thanks for reading, I'd appreciate it if you left me a review to let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	2. First Blood

I'm sorry for the long delay in updating. Actually, this story is long finished entirely, I just kinda forgot to update. I am deeply sorry, and I promise the next updates won't be that far off.

And just to add to the warning in the first chapter: the story is rated for a reason. For bad language, very bad thoughts, and violence in later chapters. It's not a kiddie story, but one I stepped into new territory for - quite a bit darker than what I usually write. So read at your own risk.

Enjoy!

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**Chapter 1 – First Blood**

"So the Chief said nothing at all what this is about?"

Leaning back in the passenger seat of Gus' car, Shawn shook his head.

"No, only that she wants us at the crime scene ASAP." He frowned. "I didn't even think people said ASAP anymore. I mean, it's not even a word, it's an abbreviation. Shouldn't she have said she wanted us _A_-_S_-_A_-_P_, instead of asking us to come _asap_? Sounds like something coming out of a tree – _asap_, a_sap_, a_**sap**_."

Gus sighed loudly and stopped the car at a red light. "Are you sure you want to discuss semantics with me?"

"Semantics? Why would discussing abbreviations be discussing semantics? What's that got to do with anything?"

Gus sighed again and stared out of the window, waiting for the lights to change. "Don't start this with me."

"I didn't. You did."

"Shawn!"

Shawn raised his hands in a pacifying gesture as Gus put the car into drive and took the turn.

"All right, all right. Message received. Dude, what's bugging you today? It's a beautiful morning, the shun is shining, the birds are chirping and the pineapples are growing in the palm trees."

"Pineapples don't grow on palm trees, Shawn."

Shawn frowned. "Of course they do."

"No, they don't. Pineapples don't grow on trees. The pineapple is a flowering plant from the family of the bromeliads."

"I read those books! They had nothing to do with pineapples at all!"

Gus sighed deeply and shook his head. "The bromeliads are a family of plants, Shawn. _The Bromeliad_ you're talking about is a series of books by Terry Pratchett and they have absolutely nothing to do with pineapples!"

"That's what I'm saying! I mean, you can be absolutely sure that if I ever write a book, there's going to be pineapples in it."

"Shut up, Shawn."

Shawn recoiled slightly at Gus' suddenly sharp tone. "All right. Phew, I'm just asking what's bugging you, especially since you actually seemed kind of glad when I called you out of the office. What happened, somebody dumped their paperwork on you? Or is that new stomach medication you're supposed to promote having explosive side-effects?"

"Shawn!"

Gus' voice was sharp now, and Shawn saw that as a clear sign to start pedaling backwards.

"I think it's the next turn to the right."

Gus nodded silently, and from the corner of his eye Shawn watched his friend as he drove down the road and took the right turn. Gus was looking indifferent, but his eyes were slightly narrowed and his mouth was set into a firm line. Something was bugging him, and Shawn vowed to find out what it was as soon as possible.

Probably a girl. Gus had gone on a date with a woman he met at a history exhibit in the local museum. Shawn didn't know what kind of women one could possibly meet at an exhibition about the first settlers in California, but maybe that was it. So far, Gus had failed to mention that date with a single word, so Shawn guessed it had gone badly.

Gus' own fault for picking a history nerd for a date. He could have told him that the museum was not the best place to pick up the ladies. Maybe he should start putting together a list for Gus on where to best pick up the ladies. And the museum would certainly not be on that list.

He'd get to that right after they had seen the crime scene.

And that it was a crime scene became obvious pretty quickly. As soon as Gus turned the car into the side road, their way was blocked by two black and whites standing across the road. Gus stopped the car, parked it on the curb and together they got out.

The officer guarding the police line knew them from sight, and obviously Chief Vick had announced their upcoming visit to the crime scene because they didn't need to explain anything as they ducked underneath the crime scene tape and continued walking down the road.

"So, what do you think this could be about?"

Shawn shrugged at Gus' words. "I don't know. She only said that it was on a basketball court somewhere around here."

Shawn looked around. They were in a residential area of Santa Barbara, one with four- to eight-story high-rises and hardly any single family houses, but still it wasn't a bad area to live in.

"There."

Gus pointed to their right, towards a fenced off area coming up. Lassiter's car was standing right in front of the fence, right next to the CSU truck and the Medical Examiner's vehicle.

The basketball court looked like every other suburban basketball court Shawn had ever seen. Cement floor with basketball court markings and basketball hoops lacking the nets. Obviously, the court was well used.

Lassiter and Juliet were standing at the far end of the court, beneath one of the hoops. Chief Vick was standing a few feet to their side, talking to the ME while all around the court CSU guys were busy snapping pictures and bagging and tagging things.

Shawn went over towards the Chief, Gus following him, but since she was still talking to the ME Shawn decided not to interrupt and went over towards Juliet and Lassiter instead.

"Jules, Lassie! Good morning to you."

Lassiter only rolled his eyes and turned around wordlessly. Shawn watched him stalk off towards one of the CSU guys, then he turned back towards Juliet.

"What crawled into his breakfast and died?"

"I think it's not really what he would call a good morning. Neither would I."

Shawn raised both eyebrows. "That bad?"

Juliet nodded and took a step to the side. Behind her, right next to the metal pole supporting the basketball hoop, two CSU guys were kneeling beside the body of a man.

Shawn heard Gus make a choked noise beside him, then there was the sound of footsteps running away, but he didn't look to see where Gus ran off to. His eyes were glued to the scene before him.

Growing up with a cop as a father, a cop who had trained him to become a cop as well from an early age on, Shawn was more used to seeing crime scenes and bodies than his friend was. That didn't mean he was totally indifferent to seeing bodies, though. On the contrary. But whenever Shawn was at a crime scene, he was able to distance himself from the body that lay there, from the person it once was and from that person's history.

Normally, he could see a crime scene for what it was – an assortment of clues that needed to be found and put together to form the picture of what had happened.

Gus running away to have another look at his breakfast proved that this wasn't just any ordinary crime scene. Even the ever-so-squeamish Gus had gotten used to the fact that bodies were part of their daily work by now. But this body was different.

There wasn't as much blood as Shawn might have expected from the state of the body. There was plenty of blood, but no big pools of it congealing on the concrete. Still, there was a lot of blood on the body, and on the young man's clothes.

That it was a man was the first thing Shawn was able to make out. And it was more obvious from his clothes, especially his shoes, and his short hair than from his face or body. Shawn swallowed and forced himself to draw a deep breath.

The man had been badly beaten, that much was obvious. The parts of his body not hidden by his clothes – his arms, neck and head – were scraped, swollen grotesquely, cut and bruised. It was only when Shawn took a closer look at the man's hands that he was finally convinced that the young man had been black. It had been impossible to be entirely sure about the skin color just from looking at his head, not with all the blood, cuts and bruises. The man's lips were split and swollen, and both of his eyes were swollen shut as well. One eyebrow was also split and blood had run down his face and over his eye from the deep gash.

The young man's clothes were torn in places, bloody in others. There was a lot of dirt on the formerly light blue shirt, one or two stains on the fabric still clearly recognizable as footprints. But even amongst all the blood and the uncountable number of injuries all over the man's body, one thing stood out. His head was swollen in many places, his face rendered unrecognizable by the beating. But there was an obvious dent in the bones of his skull, just above his right ear. The human skull wasn't supposed to be dented inwards at all, neither in that place nor anywhere else. But this man's skull was dented inwards. Dented badly.

There was a stain of blood on the metal pole supporting the basketball hoop, about two inches above Shawn's eye line. One of the CSU guys had taken photographs and was now carefully plying a strand of hair from the metal pole and put it into an evidence bag. No need to fake a psychic vision to make the police see that this was obviously what had crushed the young man's skull. Actually, it was so obvious that Shawn would have been extremely disappointed if he police had missed this.

Shawn took another long look at the gruesome scene before him, then he turned back towards Juliet.

"What happened?"

"I think the Chief wants to brief you personally on that."

Juliet nodded her head at a point behind Shawn's head, and when he turned he found that Chief Vick had finished her conversation with the ME and was walking over towards them.

"Mr. Spencer. It's good that you could come on such a short notice."

"Morning Chief. What happened here?"

Chief Vick looked around the basketball court. "You didn't bring Mr. Guster?"

"Oh, he's here. But…well, he must have eaten something bad. No more sushi at nine a.m., I'd say."

Vick nodded knowingly, as if the message had automatically translated into _Gus had to throw up_ in her head. It probably had.

"So," Shawn continued. "You need our help on this case?"

"I'm afraid it's more complicated than that, Mr. Spencer. Of course we're still in the preliminary phase of our investigation, but this crime might be connected to two other crimes over the past two weeks."

Shawn frowned. He didn't remember reading anything about a series of murders in the paper.

"You've been keeping a lid on something?"

Vick shook her head. "No. Officially, we don't have any evidence tying these cases together, but considering the obvious similarities we've been investigating the crimes as connected. Our problem right now is that we have very little forensic evidence to go on."

"So what are the other cases?"

Vick sighed. "You're going to be briefed fully once we're at the station. But over the past twelve days, there have been two very similar murders. In both cases the victims were black men, and in both cases they were brutally beaten before their death."

Shawn cast another glance at the body a few feet away from them. "In this case it looks to me as if that man has been beaten to death."

Vick nodded. "Of course we'll have to wait for the autopsy results, but I just talked to the ME. Preliminary CoD is blunt force trauma to the head."

"What was the cause of death in the other two cases?"

"They were stabbed repeatedly in the chest and abdomen. Cause of death in both cases was the blood loss, though the injuries from the beatings would have probably proven fatal as well. But obviously, the killers wanted to make sure."

Maybe this young man had simply died accidentally before anybody could pull the knife. Maybe the killers had banged his head against the support pole with more force than intended, effectively robbing themselves of their chance for a little knife-play.

But one thing Shawn was sure about – this wasn't just one killer. It was unusual for killers to change their method of killing somebody from one case to the other, but from what he had seen on this scene, they weren't just dealing with one killer. The boot prints on the dead man's shirt definitely weren't the same size. And if there was a group of people running around beating and killing people, that could explain the different ways the victims had died.

Shawn brought his hand up and put his fingers against his temple.

"I'm sensing that there's more than just one person you're looking for. I see two, maybe even three people involved in this."

A young and healthy man, it took at least one person to hold him down until the beating had weakened him enough so that he couldn't fight back anymore. So at least two, but probably more.

Vick nodded appreciatively. "That's what the little evidence we've got to go on suggests, yes. We found prints from three, possibly four different shoes on both scenes, but they weren't distinguished enough to tell us much more about who is responsible for these crimes. Else we have some hair on the victims, some skin cells, but the lab is backlogged and we haven't gotten the results from the second crime scene yet. No DNA match in our databases form the first scene, but as I said, we didn't have much evidence to start with."

"Do you have any suspects at all?"

Vick sighed. "There is one suspect, yes. I think he didn't commit these crimes himself, but ideologically he could very well be the one behind it. I wouldn't be surprised. But he's too clever to leave any evidence leading back to him. As for the actual perpetrators, there are no suspects yet."

Shawn bit his lip. "If you're saying ideologically, I guess you don't think it's a coincidence that all the three victims were black."

Vick shook her head. "No, I don't think it's a coincidence at all. The quota of hate crimes in the county has risen remarkably over the past year. These are the first murders as far as we know, but there has been an increased number of threats, assaults and property damage. The FBI has a department watching Internet sites of certain known racist groups, and over the past months they've put out a number of warning bulletins for California. There's a lot of pressure, Mr. Spencer. We need to solve those murders as quickly as possible."

Shawn raised both eyebrows. "Is it an election year?"

Vick shook her head. "Surprisingly enough, no. But the Mayor knows what kind of a publicity disaster this can become if it's handled wrongly. When I told him my concerns about the second murder, he strongly suggested that I put all possible effort into solving these cases as quickly as possible."

Yeah, nothing but a little political pressure as soon as a case might be dealing with organized racism. There was nothing like it to get politicians into a full blown panic attack like an outbreak of racial violence.

"Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara will continue to work the case, but I want you to work it as well. If there's any additional information you can give us, I'll be grateful."

Shawn nodded. "Of course, I'll do whatever I can."

Vick nodded. "Good. We're going to wrap up the scene here and start canvassing the neighborhood for possible witnesses. The court can't be seen from most of the buildings around here, but maybe we get a lucky break just once."  
She checked her watch. "Why don't you and Mr. Guster come to the station in an hour, I'm going to brief you on the full case then."

Shawn nodded. "Okay, we'll be there"

"Good. Now excuse me Mr. Spencer, I need to see how far CSU is with working the crime scene."

The Chief nodded and turned away to talk with one of the men from the Crime Scene Unit who was overseeing the evidence. Shawn turned and took a long look around the basketball court.

The ME was preparing to move the body away from the scene and all over the court the CSU guys seemed to be finishing up their respective tasks. Every corner of the basketball court had been searched for possible evidence.

The basketball court was entirely surrounded, by a wall on two sides and by a mesh-wire fence on the other two. Shawn took a look around. There were buildings behind the walls on the southern and western side of the court, but it would be difficult to see into the basketball court even from the apartments on the upper floors. There were trees growing between the wall and the buildings, their crowns overhanging the wall and shielding part of the court from being viewed from above. And the angle was wrong.

The crime scene underneath the basketball hoop was too close to the wall to be seen from any of the buildings surrounding the court.

If the police found an eyewitness, it would be somebody who had passed by the court at the time of the crime, not somebody who lived in any of the buildings around.

The victim and the killers must have come onto the court through the door in the fence. There was an old padlock hanging in the mesh wire, but it looked so corroded and rusty that Shawn doubted the door had been locked at all over the past year or two. For as long as there were no problems with gangs or junkies using the basketball court for a meeting place, the authorities obviously had seen no reason to keep it locked during the night.

And now somebody had been murdered here.

As much as Shawn strained his eyes, there was nothing at the scene that immediately stood out to him. No traces on either the fence or the walls suggesting that somebody had scaled them, and nothing but the evidence and traces the police were securing. Probably, all of the candy wrappers and cigarette butts would prove to be unrelated to the case, but Shawn knew that with as much pressure as Vick had said was being put on her, she had no choice but to make sure that everything was run through forensics before it was discarded as evidence.

But there was nothing Shawn could do here at the scene, so it was probably about time he went looking for Gus so that they could head towards the station.

Shawn slowly walked off the basketball court, keeping his eyes out for his friend. He found Gus back at his car. He was leaning against the side, with his head tilted back, his eyes closed and breathing deeply through his mouth. Gus looked decidedly pale and queasy.

"Hey."

Gus opened his eyes and turned towards his approaching friend.

"Are you all right?"

Gus drew a deep breath and shook his head. "I'll be fine. Are you finished?"

Shawn nodded. "Chief Vick asked us to come to the station in a bit less than an hour. She thinks this case is connected to two other murders and wants to give us a briefing on those cases."

"There were other murders like this one?" Another shade of color vanished from Gus' face.

"Similar enough to make her suspect a connection, yes."

Gus ran a hand over his head and unlocked the car. "Anything that stood out for you on the scene?"

Shawn shook his head as he got into the passenger seat. "Not really. It's been more than one person who attacked the guy, but the Chief already knew that. I doubt they'll find an eye-witness, not with how the crime scene is located."

"You think he was taken there deliberately?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. Not that deliberately. If whoever did this had really wanted to hide it, they'd have taken him somewhere totally deserted. I think that they caught up with him somewhere in the area, and the basketball court was the most secluded place around here. One thing is for sure, whoever that guy was, he wasn't there to play basketball. Not in those clothes he was wearing."

"Do they know what the motive was yet?"

Shawn shrugged. "They're not sure. But the Chief suspect this is all tied to an increase in hate crimes here in the county."

"You mean the other victims were black as well?"

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, as far as the Chief told me. I guess she'll tell us more about it once we get to the station."

Gus nodded and put on his seat belt, then he started the car. As Shawn fixed his own seat belt into place, he noticed how tightly Gus was gripping the steering wheel as he turned the car around and back onto the main road.

Something was going on with his friend today, something had been bugging him since Shawn had called him to the office earlier. Shawn did some quick thinking, but he couldn't come up with any misdeed he had committed over the past days that Gus could have found out about. All right, so he had borrowed Gus' stapler two days ago, and it would probably never be the same again after Shawn's attempt at stapling a face onto a watermelon, but if that was what this was all about, then Gus was clearly overreacting.

And somehow, Shawn had the feeling that it wasn't about the stapler. It was about something else, and as soon as the Chief had briefed them about the case he'd go and find out. Nothing like a good conversation over lunch. He'd even pay this time. If they still wanted lunch after being debriefed about two cases similar to this one, that was.

Shawn leaned his head back and closed his eyes with a sigh. It was still too early for this kind of thing. Far too early.

He needed a smoothie.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and as always please leave a review and let me know what you think. Thanks.


	3. Agitation

Sorry for the dealy, guys. I've been caught in a place without internet access for the past two weeks. Let me tell you that withdrawal is a horrible thing to go through, lol. But here you go with the next chapter, hope you enjoy it.

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**Chapter 02 – Agitation**

"Adam Wagner."

Shawn, who was seated in front of Chief Vick's desk along with Gus, Juliet and Lassiter, searched his brain for that name but came up with a blank.

"Who is he?"

"Wagner is an agitator. A White Supremacist skinhead of the worst kind, founding member of a racist group called the White Resistance. It's a California-wide hate group that's using all possible platforms to spread their ideology – print media, internet sites, CD-labels, everything. Wagner has been on the FBI watch list for years now. He has prior convictions for aggravated assault, charged and arrested in LA where he originally comes from."

Shawn opened the file and looked at the nondescript guy in his forties staring back at him from the picture in the file.

"So he's the one you think is behind those crimes?"

Vick nodded. "Ideologically, as I told you earlier. The FBI is watching all known hate groups closely, and of course the groups know that. Most of them are well-versed or at least well-advised in all legal aspects of what they do. Freedom of speech protects most of the ideology they spread, and they're knowing enough of the workings of the internet to use that to their advantage, too. But Wagner has been known for taking it further than those groups are mostly willing to go."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Wagner was released from prison a little over a year ago. Ever since then, his whereabouts are unknown. It's suspected that he's still in California, but neither the LA county police nor the FBI know exactly where he is. Those racist groups are tightly knit networks. And they protect their own. The FBI suspect that Wagner has gone into hiding, and that some like-minded people are hiding him."

Shawn frowned. "Was he released on parole?"

Vick shook her head. "No, he did the full three years he was sentenced for. Aggravated assault."

"But if he's not violating any parole agreements, why should he be hiding?"

"Because ever since his release from prison, Wagner has started agitating. Well beyond what's protected by freedom of speech. There are some excerpts of it in the file I gave you, but basically Wagner thinks the time for silent protest is long since gone. He's calling on his fellow white people to finally do something against, and I quote _'the black attempt at overthrowing our white society'_. According to Wagner, all problems can be traced back to the fact that black people are weakening our society. He's tossing out random prejudice about blacks being lazy and abusing the social security system, about them being evolutionary inferior, dumb and indolent, and he's backing that up by pseudo-scientific facts. I'm sure you all have heard it before. It's bad enough that there are people out there who believe it, but of course Wagner knows exactly how to reach those people. And ever since he's been released from prison, Wagner has been advertising active resistance."

Shawn shook his head. "What, he's telling others to kill black people? And they just go ahead and do it?"

Vick shook her head. "He's not addressing the general public, Mr. Spencer. He's directing his messages solely at like-minded people with a potential for violence. And his message is that it's time to do something now before it's too late. Wagner is an agitator of the worst kind. He's charismatic and eloquent. He has the talent to make his message sound like the truth, especially to people who already live in a certain mindset. And his message is very clear – every black person less on this planet is a step into the right direction. Of course he doesn't limit his hatred to black people, he's just as much against Hispanics and all other non-white people. His ultimate goal is a purely white America. And now he's telling people it's time to actively try and get there."

Shawn was still shaking his head, a frown etched onto his face. He understood what the Chief was saying, but it just didn't want to get into his head on an intellectual level. Not that somebody like Wagner was bullheaded enough to really believe what he was saying, but that there were others who simply took his words at face value and acted upon them. This was the twenty-first century, shouldn't people know better?

"So he's telling the public to kill blacks? And they just do?"

Vick sighed. "I'm not talking about the elderly housewife suddenly killing her neighbor because she heard Wagner broadcast something on the radio, Mr. Spencer. Wagner is intelligent. He knows how to use his medium of choice. Your average rational citizen is never going to hear or read a word of what Wagner is saying. He's addressing his own circles, and the racist network is spreading the word amongst their own. Even the FBI has a hard time tracing Wagner's statements and videos back to their source, and they have the equipment and personnel to really put an effort into it. To a fatuous racist, Wagner's words might be just what it takes to put him over the edge of actually committing acts of violence against others. Wagner was released from prison fourteen months ago. Roughly a year ago, the FBI took notice of his first speeches about active resistance on the internet. Ever since then, there's been a drastic increase in hate crimes all over California. Actually, all over the US, but the increase is much more dramatic in California since that's the area where Wagner's group is most active. He's and idol figure for the racists here. The message reaches racists all over the country, but it's the Californian groups that feel most compelled to heed the call."

Shawn leaned back and chewed his lip as he thought about that. "But what you said basically means that Wagner is the one who's preaching the violence, but you don't think that he's the one who actually committed these murders."

Vick nodded. "Yes, unfortunately that's what I'm saying. We know what's ideologically behind those murders, but we have a lot of work cut out for us if we want to find those who actually did this. So far, the evidence we have hasn't led us towards a single suspect. The Mayor is getting nervous, because if this thing hits the papers, it's going to be a publicity disaster for him. It's not my main concern, but if the Mayor is not happy, he's not going to make my life any easier. And all that aside, I won't stand for a racist asshole like Wagner agitating those who are dumb enough to do what he says. Not in my city. Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara will work the cases. If there is any…" She waved her hand around vaguely "…any psychic input you have for the case, I'll be grateful. I want these people off the streets before they commit another murder. That's our primary goal, to find those who did this. If we manage to find anything that'll help the FBI shut up Wagner, all the better. But our main focus is finding the murderers."

Shawn nodded. "All right, I'll see what I can do."

He held up the file Vick had handed him earlier. "Can I keep this?"

Vick nodded. "Yes. There's everything we have on Wagner and the two previous murders. Also some excerpts of Wagner's internet propaganda. You'll receive the information on this morning's crime scene as soon as the results are in. Call me if you have anything."

Shawn nodded. "Of course."

"Good." Chief Vick turned back towards Lassiter. "I want you to check up on the progress of the neighborhood canvass. And check in with forensics, tell them to treat the evidence from this morning with top priority."

"Of course Chief."

"That's all. I need to talk to the Mayor."

Vick picked up her phone, and Shawn and the others understood it for the dismissal that it was. They got up and filed out of the office.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Lassiter went over towards his desk without another word. Shawn turned towards Juliet.

"So what are you going to do now?"

Juliet shrugged. "What the Chief said. We have officers canvassing the neighborhood looking for witnesses."

Shawn shook his head. "I have the feeling that you're not going to find any."

Juliet sighed. "Considering where the crime scene is located, I'm afraid that you're right about that. But we still have to try, Shawn. And then we'll wait for the forensic reports to come back, and we're going to do a thorough background check on the victim. Maybe there is something connecting the three victims that we missed so far."

Shawn seriously doubted that. If the Chief was right and Wagner had managed to agitate some people in the city enough to actually start killing black people, he doubted that the choice of victims was anything but random. But he also knew that the police had to check. And maybe they got lucky and there was something.

"Let me know if you find out anything."

Juliet nodded. "Sure. I really need to get to work now, though. Lassiter's fuse has been extremely short over the past days."

She was looking over her shoulder as she said that, and true enough Lassiter was sitting at his desk, the receiver of his phone wedged between shoulder and ear, glaring darkly in their direction.

"I'd better get going. I really hope you find something. We can need all the help we can get on this."

She turned around and walked over towards her desk. Shawn watched her go for a moment, then he turned back towards Gus.

"Come on. Let's go to the office and see what we can find out. I'll spring for lunch."  
Gus raised an eyebrow in surprise at that statement, but nodded. "Okay."

File clutched under his arm, Shawn started to walk out of the station. His mind was on different things than lunch right now, though.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Reading racist speeches were the best appetite suppressant there was. The box with Chinese takeout was standing on Shawn's desk, only halfway empty and now long gone cold and congealed into an unpleasant looking mass.

Gus had barely touched his own food in the first place.

For the past two hours, the two had worked through the file Chief Vick had given them, and all it had taken had been a look at the crime scene photos from the two previous murders to chase away all of Gus' appetite.

David Gerard had been on his way home from a date with his girlfriend. They had gone to dinner and to the movies twelve days ago. Then David had walked his girlfriend to the hospital for her nightshift as a nurse on the pediatric ward. The police assumed that he had failed to get a cab immediately and had decided to walk home. His body had been found in the early morning in the backyard of an apartment building, lying in the narrow space between a wall and the dumpster. He had been beaten brutally for a long time before his attackers had stabbed him five times in the abdomen and dropped him behind that dumpster. None of the stab wounds had been immediately lethal, and according to the autopsy report he had lived for up to another thirty minutes before he had died from the blood loss.

David Gerard had been twenty-six years old.

Malcolm Baker had been a thirty-three year old part time cook in a small Indian takeout restaurant. He had been on his way home from his shift when he had been attacked. He normally drove to and from work on his bicycle. The next morning, his body was discovered in a park he normally drove through on his way home from work. He, too, had been brutally beaten before being stabbed in the chest and stomach, and he too had not died immediately.

His bike had been found a few yards from his body, the spokes of the front wheel dented and broken as if somebody had kicked it or thrown something into it to get Malcolm off the bike. Malcolm had been married and the father of a three year old daughter.

Shawn had stared at the crime scene photos for what had felt like hours, searching for the tiny clues the police might have missed. However, there was nothing that stood out to him. Nothing obvious, at least. And judged by the forensics reports, that held through for everything. What little traces the murderers had left – skin cells underneath David Gerard's fingernails, a hair on Malcolm Baker's shirt, and boot prints from at least three different pairs of shoes on each scene – all didn't trace back to anything. No DNA-match on the skin cells, the hair was a dead end as well, and the boot prints weren't distinguished enough to identify the make or model of the boots.

The wool fibers found on both victims were too generic to trace back to anything, either. The forensic analysis stated that the fibers probably stemmed from woolen hats or ski-masks, but the material was used in so many different products that it was impossible to trace it back to any specific piece of clothing, let alone a store where it might have been bought and the people who bought it.

There was nothing in that file that stood out to Shawn, so he had decided to read some of the excerpts of Adam Wagner's speeches that were attached to the file.

It hadn't been the best decision Shawn had ever made. Not by a long shot.

He just couldn't wrap his mind around it. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't understand it. The first thing he couldn't understand was how somebody could come up with those ideas in the first place. Wagner's speeches were full of absolute bullshit, and Shawn failed to see how somebody could not notice that. In Wagner's twisted little world, black people were an evolutionary mistake. For pages on end he kept on ranting about the inferiority of black people, on how they were naturally lazy and dumber than white people, and how much the society was suffering because of them. Wagner even was bold enough to quote the official Californian crime statistics to support his claims, though he conveniently refused to work in the factors that put those statistics into a social context. But all this was nothing new, unfortunately. Wagner's ideas on white superiority were just that, ideas that had been around in certain circles for a long time already.

What was scary about those speech-transcripts and essays the FBI had pulled from the internet was how Wagner proposed to deal with what he called 'the black problem'. His message was shockingly simple.

Every black person less was a step into the right direction for America.

Black people needed to be kept away from white people at all cost because they were only a hindrance in everything the white America stood for. Black soldiers were the reason why the military campaigns of the past years hadn't always brought the expected results. The black society was trying to undermine the white society; Wagner even went as far as claiming that the ultimate goal of black people everywhere was to wipe out the white race.

Wagner's words gave the impression that white people were bordering on extinction if they didn't start acting against it soon. Wagner painted horrible scenarios of black men forcing themselves on white women to taint the white people's offspring, and in one of his speeches he went on for minutes about how the worst treason against their race for a white woman or man could be to engage in any kind of relationship with a black partner.

It was sickening to read that.

It was even more sickening to think that not only were there people not only believing this crap, but also willing to act upon it.

Wagner was effectively calling his like-minded companions to get rid of as many black people as they could before they could damage the further existence of the white people.

And obviously, there were people out there who were stupid and narrow-minded enough to just take these words literally and kill people.

After another paragraph of more racist bullshit, Shawn closed the file and dropped it onto the desk.

His loud sigh made Gus raise his head from behind his computer.

"Fed up with the crap?"

"Didn't take until now, believe me."

"Did you find anything?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. There's nothing on those crime scene photos that suggest the police missed something. The little evidence there was led to nothing conclusive. And if I have to read one more of Wagner's hate speeches, I think I'm going to go crazy. How can people actually believe this crap?"

Gus drew a breath as if to say something, but then he shook his head and stayed silent. Shawn was too worked up to notice. He stared out of the window, his brain running on overdrive.

"So what we've got is this hate-preacher who's spreading his madness all through the internet. And somebody here in Santa Barbara – at least three people from what we know now – take him by his word and randomly beat black people to death. There's no obvious scheme to the murders. They were all committed on different days of the week, in different parts of the city, and there's nothing so far that's tying the victims together. I honestly have no idea how we're going to solve this case."

He got up from his chair and started pacing the office.

"Have you found out anything?"

Gus closed his laptop and shook his head. "Nothing the police don't already know. And to be honest, I don't want to keep browsing racist websites for any longer to try and see if somebody claims to have committed these murders. Let's be honest, if whoever did this is advertising it on the internet, they're surely clever enough to do it somewhere the police and the FBI are not immediately going to find it. Which means I won't find it, either."

Shawn ran his hands through his hair, causing it to stick up at odd angles.

"So we got nothing."

"Nothing but a bunch of people suddenly starting to randomly kill people."

Shawn stopped his pacing. "But what if they didn't?"

Gus frowned. "Didn't do what? Kill people? Shawn, there's three bodies who were all brutally beaten and then killed. It definitely looks as if it were the same guys."

"That's not what I meant. What if they didn't just start?"

Gus leaned back in his chair and looked at his friend with doubt clearly etched on his face.

"What do you mean? That here were other victims before those three? I'm sure the police would have noticed that."

"Not if they survived they wouldn't have."

Gus merely frowned at Shawn, but Shawn was on a roll now.

"Come on Gus, you just don't go around killing people all of a sudden. It doesn't make sense."

"I'd hate to burst your bubble Shawn, but this whole thing doesn't make sense."

"I know that it doesn't make sense to kill people because of their skin color, Gus. But it makes even less sense to go from silently hating to killing people in one step. Besides, the whole thing about stabbing the first two victims makes more sense then. What if they left their real first victim for dead and it turned out that he or she wasn't? They'd want to make sure there was nobody who could identify them the next time."

"Shawn, if those people had attacked anybody before, don't you think a report would have been filed? Don't you think the police would know about it?"

Shawn shrugged helplessly. "What if the victim didn't file a report?"

Gus watched him with both eyebrows raised. "What, you think somebody gets beaten up by a group of racists and doesn't go to the police?"

Shawn shrugged again. "I don't know, all right? I just think it's worth checking. Maybe they were too scared, maybe they even knew their attackers. It's worth checking, isn't it?"

"So how do you propose we check whether or not somebody else was attacked if there's no police report?"

"We'll check the hospitals."

"The hospitals."

Shawn nodded. "Yes, the hospitals. If you get beaten up badly, you go to the hospital, right?"

"Great, then call Juliet and tell her to go check the hospitals."

Shawn shook his head and sat back down. "No, I can't do that."

"Oh, and why not?"

"I can't just tell her to go and check the hospitals. I need more information first. If there's anything to it, I need to be able to give them a name."

"And how are you going to figure that out?"

Shawn picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers. His mind was reeling, but at least now he had some semblance of a plan. It definitely beat sitting around.

"Well, assuming that I'm right and the first dead victim actually isn't the first victim, then it's safe to assume the real first victim went to the hospital, right? And in Santa Barbara, that either means the victim went or was brought to the Cottage Hospital, or they went to a Free Clinic. It's just a few places we need to check."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course. Why didn't I figure that out?"

"All right. So if I tipped the police off about my suspicion now, they'd check the ambulance reports, right? To see if any other badly beaten black victims were transported to the hospital over the past couple of weeks. And just because my Dad taught me to be a thorough cop, if I was in their place I'd also check directly at the hospitals. Gus, you're the expert on hospitals. Would there be any way to search for our theoretical victim number one if we didn't have a name to go on?"

Gus shrugged. "Sure. Hospitals use keywords for their files, just like everybody else. With the right keywords you could find out if there were any patients treated there which fit the criteria you're looking for."

"Great!" Shawn got up from his chair and reached for his keys. Seeing that Gus wasn't moving, he turned around with a frown.

"What are you waiting for?"

Gus shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe for an explanation?"

"We're going to check out the hospitals, isn't it obvious?"

"Oh, and what are you planning to do? Ask them to pass on confidential information to you? Good luck with that."

Shawn rolled his eyes. At times, it was frustrating how long it took Gus to catch up to what he was thinking. After over twenty years, one should think that he knew better by now.

"We're not going to ask them, Gus. We're going to go in, you distract whoever is manning the reception with your pharmaceutical sales reptitude long enough so that I can find a computer to use. By my estimate, we'll be in and out each hospital in ten minutes. That should leave us enough time for smoothies before we go back to the station and present Chief Vick with our results."

"No Shawn."

It took those words a moment to register. Mentally, Shawn had already been halfway through the door by the time they did.

"What?"

Gus sighed deeply and got up from his chair. "I said no. No, I'm not going to go canvassing the hospitals in this city with you, putting my name on the line just so that you can go investigate."

"Gus, nobody said anything about using your real name."

"Shawn, I said no. Don't you think fake name or not, these people are going to recognize me the next time I have to visit a doctor in the hospital? I'm not going to do that, forget it. If you're so convinced that this didn't start with the first victim, tell Juliet about it and let her check this the official way. I'm not doing this."

Shawn just stared at his friend for a long moment. But Gus was staring right back, not backing down. His jaw was set in a firm line and his lips were pressed together tightly. Gus was pissed, that much was obvious, but in all honesty Shawn had no idea what Gus could be pissed about. This was not about the stapler, that much he was sure of.

"Gus, what is going on with you? You've been on a short fuse all day, and now you blow up at me for suggesting that we do things like we always do them? What's going on?"

"You want to know what's going on, Shawn? Fine, I'll tell you what's going on. Do you remember Tom?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Gus, by now you should know better than to ask me questions that start with 'do you remember'. Because, let's face it, I do remember. Every time."

"So you should know what this is about."

But in all honesty, Shawn didn't. "We are talking about the same Tom here, right? The one from your trust exercise weekend?"

"Exactly that Tom. And exactly that weekend."

"What happened? Somebody took the pamper pole and now they think you did it?"

"Shawn, could you be serious, just for once?"

Shawn raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "All right, I'm serious. So what about Tom?"

"If you're so good at remembering, then I'm sure you also remember that he invited me to dinner at his house?"

Shawn nodded. "Yes, you and your grandmother."

"Exactly."

That seemed to settle the matter for Gus, but Shawn had to admit he still didn't quite get what this was all about.

After another long moment of silence it was obvious that Gus wasn't going to elaborate.

"What is the problem about him inviting your for dinner?"

Gus rolled his eyes in total exasperation. "Tom invited me _and my grandmother_, Shawn. My square-dancing grandmother who broke both her hips and dislocated her shoulders, that grandmother. The grandmother I can't show because the one grandmother I have which isn't dead lives in Jamaica and never broke a hip or dislocated anything in her entire life, and hates square-dance with a passion."

"All right, all right, I get it. Why didn't you just say that you had a problem? I told you I could get you somebody to play your grandmother who fulfils all the criteria."

"I don't want you to get anybody to play my grandmother." Gus' voice was louder than normal now, and there was a sharpness in his tone which Shawn hadn't heard often before. "Besides, it's too late for that, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that after I kept canceling dinner appointments with him, Tom decided that my excuses were a little too lame. He asked some people some questions and took a look at my personnel file. Guess what he found out?"

"Can he do that? Just look at your file like that?"

"Yes Shawn, he can. He's my boss. And now that he knows one of my grandmothers is long dead and the other is living far, far away, he started to ask himself some questions. In fact, Tom and I had a very long conversation this morning, right before you came to get me. Tom was asking me questions I didn't really know how to answer."

"What, you're going to get into trouble now?"

Gus rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm in trouble, Shawn! Since I failed to come up with a very good reason why I had to go and take care of a grandmother who didn't exist, Tom now thinks I only made that up to get out of the mandatory team weekend. Worse even, he thinks I played it all out to portray myself as the caring person who puts his family over work. He thinks I arranged this only to impress him about my character and into giving me better clients. I think that counts as trouble, Shawn. I definitely do."

Shawn swallowed. If he was honest, he hadn't really wasted much thought on Tom since they had met at this team weekend. Come on, it had been over a year ago, what business of his was it to bring this up with Gus now? Shawn hadn't counted on the man even remembering his half-hearted dinner invitation from that day.

"So what's going to happen?"

"I don't know Shawn, all right? Immediate consequences are that he took my most proficient client from me and gave him to somebody else because he claims I cheated him into giving me that client in the first place. And he's revising my statistics, which just so happens to include the days I missed at work or left early because of my second job. Oh, I nearly forgot about that – he's not too happy with my degree of commitment, either. So if you'll excuse me, I'll go back and finish my work for the day now. If you want to go digging through hospital files, you're on your own."

Gus grabbed his keys from the desktop, turned and walked out of the office without another word. A moment later, there was the sound of a car door slamming and a moment later Gus' car pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Slowly, Shawn brought up a hand and ran it through his hair.

"What the hell was that?"

There was no answer from the empty room, and after a moment Shawn sank back down in his chair. He'd talk to Gus again later today. Right now it was probably best to let him let off steam for a while.

Shawn pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and pushed a button on his speed dial. He needed to call Juliet.

He'd have liked to present a more elegant vision with him already knowing whether or not there had even been a victim previous to the three ones that had died, but now he'd just have to rely on his instincts and do without that knowledge.

It was more important that they solved this case as soon as possible. There'd be time to worry about style during later visions.

* * *

Thanks for reading (and sticking with the story despite a lack of updates lately). I promise to be better next time, especially since the story is already finished and only needs to be posted. I'd appreciate it if you let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	4. Needles, Haystacks, Chicken Dinners

Here is chapter 3 for all of you to enjoy. Real life is awfully busy right now, which is why I keep missing the updates. I hope you can forgive me.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Needles, Haystacks, Chicken Dinners**

"Shawn, it's actually embarrassing that we checked for previous victims, but that we didn't think far enough to come up with this during our own investigation."

Juliet sat down in a chair behind her desk, looking at Shawn as she passed over a folder to him.

"Jules, come on. There was no reason for you to suspect that there had been a previous victim who survived. And even more so, who didn't press charges."

Juliet shook her head. "But still. Had this leaked to the press, it would have been put down as a rookie mistake. Just how did you figure it out?"

Shawn raised his hands up and gestured upwards as if he didn't really know himself. "The spirits told me. I simply read the file, and the spirits kept telling me to look for other victims. So what did you find?"

"Nothing when we checked the ambulances and Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital. But we hit the jackpot in the free clinic on Maple Street. They treated a badly beaten black man sixteen days ago."

"That's four days before the first murder."

Juliet nodded. "Yes. The man was brought into the clinic at 11:35 pm by a man claiming to be his brother. His name is Walter Pritchett. He was treated for multiple blunt force trauma to the chest and abdomen. He had two broken ribs, a severe concussion, multiple swellings and bruisings, a broken cheekbone, a broken left arm and three head wounds that needed twenty-four stitches all in all. Most remarkably, according to the doctor who treated him, he was soaking wet when he arrived at the clinic."

"That explains why he's still alive. They probably tossed him into the water after he was beaten, either thinking he already was dead or hoping he would drown. But he managed to get out and call for help."

Juliet chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment. "But I still don't understand why he wouldn't have called the police. Or why the clinic didn't send him to a hospital straight away."

Shawn shrugged. "He got lucky, in more way than one. I mean, the injuries sound bad, but they're not bad enough that he can't survive outside of the hospital."

"But why wouldn't he go to the police?"

Shawn shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he has reasons not to get in any contact with the police. Maybe he knew the people who did this. Maybe he's afraid they'll go after his family next. Why don't you go and ask him."

"It's not that easy. He's gone. The address he gave the clinic is the same address we got for his driver's license. It's actually his mother's address, but either she really has no idea where he is, or she's lying. She claims not to have seen him in the past three weeks, but that it's not unusual for him to vanish for a few weeks at a time. She says he's often getting work out of town for a few weeks, then comes back. I had the impression that she's not telling the whole truth, but we don't have enough to bring her in for questioning. We have a BOLO out for Pritchett as a material witness, but until we get some results on that, I don't know what we could do."

She shook her head, but then seemed to remember something else. "Oh, but we identified the body from the crime scene this morning. He didn't carry any identification or wallet, just some cash. But his prints were in the system. His name was Richard Sinclair, he had a prior arrest for DUI eight years ago. Thirty-two years old, he was working as a carpenter but had been unemployed for the past five months. No wife, girlfriend or children. He was living alone, his next of kin is a brother in Las Vegas. He has been informed and is on his way here."

Shawn looked at the file in Juliet's hands. "Can I get a copy of this?"

Juliet handed he file over. "It's yours. The Chief said to give you copies of everything we have. And now I really need to get back to work, ever since she's talked to the Mayor this morning, her mood is nearly as bad as Lassiter's."

"There's a lot of pressure on her, I'd say."

Juliet nodded. "I guess. I only hope we manage to find those guys before they kill somebody else."

"Yeah, you and me both."

Shawn grabbed the file and got up from his chair. "I'll give you a call in case I get any more premonitions on this."

Juliet nodded, already absorbed in her computer screen again. "The forensics report is due soon. I'll let you know if there's anything of interest."

"Thanks. Bye Jules."

Juliet waved a half-hearted goodbye while scrolling through a file at the same time. Shawn shook his head with a slight smile and walked out of the station onto the parking lot. He had taken a cab from the office to his apartment earlier on to get his bike, since Gus had seen fit to drive off in his car, leaving Shawn stranded at the office.

As Shawn walked across the parking lot towards where his bike was standing, he saw movement from the corner of his eyes. Just as he had reached the bike and was about to take the helmet off the handles where he had left it, a woman detached herself from behind a delivery van to his left. A man was walking behind her, a camera balanced on his shoulder. The woman was holding a microphone in one hand, and before Shawn knew what was happening, she had it thrust into his face.

"Mr. Spencer, Kara Bernadotti, WXSB news. I wonder if you have the time for a short statement."

Startled, Shawn just stood there for a second, file folder in one hand, his helmet in the other. The woman, Kara, was smiling widely at him, much too white teeth sparkling from between lips that were much too red, and far too inflated to be real. She was standing close enough for Shawn to see that even the thick layer of makeup on her face wasn't enough to hide the crow's feet around her eyes and the wrinkles around her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I don't really think…"

"Jason, I hope that the camera is on." An extremely fake smile suddenly spread on Kara's face as she pushed herself beside Shawn and held the microphone up to her mouth.

"This is Kara Bernadotti of WXSH news. I am currently standing in front of the Santa Barbara police station together with psychic police consultant Shawn Spencer. Mr. Spencer, what can you tell us about the wave of hate-crimes that is rolling over this city these days?"

Wave of hate-crimes? Rolling over this city? Who was writing her lines, a soap opera writer? The woman couldn't be serious. Granted, WXSB wasn't known for its journalist thoroughness, but still. Besides, what part of _I'm sorry, I don't really think_ had been formulated in a way that she could possibly understand it as an agreement for an interview? Shawn knew how this worked. No interviews during cases. No speaking to the press during cases.

"I really think you should speak to the SBPD's press department if you want to know any news about current crimes in Santa Barbara."

But Kara Bernadotti didn't let him off the hook. Shawn had seen a look like the one in her eyes before – when Gus had made him watch that documentary about sharks on the Discovery Channel. She scented a story here, which meant she had been tipped off by somebody and this whole thing hadn't leaked to the press yet. Well, Shawn wouldn't be the one to give her a story.

He made move to put on his helmet and sit on his bike, but a hand with inch-long fingernails held him by his arm, the nails digging claw-like into his skin. From the camera's point of view it probably looked like a confidential touch, but it effectively stopped Shawn from moving.

Kara's smile notched up another couple of watts.

"So are you confirming that there is a wave of hate-crimes in Santa Barbara? Can you confirm that the black population of our city is no longer safe?"

"I can't confirm anything. Speak to the press department."

"Did the Chief ask you to work on the case?"

"Speak to the press department, Miss Bernadotti. I don't have a statement for you."

Shawn freed himself from her grip with a jerk of his arm that probably cost her a finely manicured nail or two. But he didn't care. He wouldn't give that vulture any material to work into the ridicule that she called news-show. He quickly put on his helmet and stuffed the file into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Did the Mayor ask you to investigate this crime? Have you tried to contact the spirits of the murder victims yet? What did they have to say?"  
Shawn wordlessly started the engine and kicked the bike into life. But not even the sound of the roaring engine could deter Kara Bernadotti from her never-ending string of questions. Only when Shawn pulled the bike off the parking lot and out onto the street did her voice finally fall silent.

There were times when he hated the press.

Oh, of course he did talk to them. After the cases were over and done with, he occasionally gave an interview if somebody asked him nicely. It was free advertisement, after all. And he always took great care to leave too many details about his alleged communication to the spirit world out of those interviews. He had once told Gus that it was to create more mystery about his psychic abilities, but in fact he just wanted to keep some level of distance and respect for the victims. It was one thing to fake psychic premonitions for solving the case, it was another thing entirely to put words in dead people's mouths for all the town and their families to read.

Well, there would certainly not be any interviews for WXSB in the future. Most certainly none for Miss Kara Bernadotti. If that even was her real name. Somehow, Shawn doubted it.

A short time later, Shawn pulled his bike up in front of the office, got off and walked over towards the door. Once inside, he deposited the file on his desk and pulled out his cell phone.

Juliet picked up after the second ring.

"O'Hara."

"Juliet, it's Shawn."

"Shawn! Do you already have something else for us?"

Shawn shook his head, an automatic reaction despite the fact that Juliet could not see him through the phone.

"No, it's not about the case. I just wanted to warn you that a woman from WXSB is lurking on the police parking lot with her cameraman. She wanted to get a statement from me when I left the station."

"I hope you didn't give her one."

"Jules, that hurts."

There was a slight chuckle on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry."

"I told her to contact the press department if she wanted to know anything. But since she was asking me about a wave of hate-crimes in Santa Barbara, I think it's safe to assume that she was tipped off by somebody. It won't take long for the other papers and stations to catch up on it."

Juliet sighed. "I'll let the Chief know. And I'll send somebody down to escort her off the premises. Maybe I should ask Carlton, he's in such a foul mood that she'd probably never dare to come back."  
"You'll do that. I'll let you know if I find anything else. Bye Jules."

"Bye Shawn."

Shawn disconnected and put the phone back into his pocket. He pulled out the file Juliet had given him and opened it.

More crime scene photos from this morning, but since Shawn had seen the actual scene of the crime he merely looked them over to see if something stood out. But nothing did.

Else there was the police file on Richard Sinclair, the latest victim. His arrest had been eight years ago, so the picture on his arrest report was a slight bit out of date. But there was a copy of Sinclair's driver's license in the file as well, and Shawn put the copy next to the mug shots and simply studied the pictures for a moment.

Sinclair had been a slightly heavyset young man. Thirty-two, that was less than two years older than Shawn himself was. In his mug shot from eight years ago, his hair was still full, but it seemed to have thinned out over the past years, the hairline receding visibly on the picture of his driver's license. But still he had been far too young to die.

But there was nothing new to find in an eight year old arrest report. If there was anything that would push the case forward, it would come with the results of the forensic analysis. And for that he'd still have to wait.

Shawn started leafing through the other papers Juliet had given him, the little information they had on Walter Pritchett. As of now all they knew was that Pritchett had been beaten up badly a bit more than two weeks ago, and that he was black. It didn't have to mean anything, Gus was right about that. But it could mean something. Shawn was willing to take the chance.

All Juliet had given him was a copy of the report from the Free Clinic where Pritchett had been treated. Shawn read through the list of injuries again. Pritchett had been a lucky guy, if one could call somebody who had been beaten like that lucky. But none of the injuries he had sustained had been life-threatening. Shawn was sure that they were all painful, but considering how the three other victims had ended up, Pritchett had definitely been lucky.

The only other thing Juliet had put into the file about it was a copy of Pritchett's driver's license and a copy of her notes from the short interview with Pritchett's mother. Nothing new there that Juliet hadn't told him in person.

But still, Juliet had been convinced that the woman hadn't told her the whole truth, and Shawn agreed. Pritchett hadn't been out of town for three weeks, not if he was treated for his injuries a bit more than two weeks ago. So why had she lied to the police? Why was Pritchett so afraid of going to the police?

Shawn only hoped that Pritchett wasn't involved in anything illegal. If that was the case, it could become really hard to find him, let alone get him to talk if they managed to find him in the first place.

But in any case, it should be worth a try to go visit the mother again. Maybe she'd talk more openly to somebody who wasn't a member of the police. Or maybe Shawn would notice something else that would put him on Pritchett's trace.

Shawn definitely wanted to talk to the man and find out what had happened to him. He checked his watch.

Ten to four in the afternoon. If Gus was staying on his normal working schedule despite the trouble Tom was suddenly making, he'd be off at around five. And Shawn wanted to talk to Gus before he set out to visit Walter Pritchett.

But that meant he had about an hour to kill, and seeing that he had only eaten half his lunch earlier he figured it was enough time to go and try to mooch a meal at his Dad's.

Shawn grabbed the files, put on his jacket, stuffed the files in his pocket and left the office.

Fifteen minutes of earl afternoon traffic later, Shawn pulled his bike into his father's street and drove up to the house. His father's truck was standing in the driveway, and Shawn parked his bike beside it, took off his helmet and went over towards the door.

His father was nowhere in sight at first when Shawn came into the house. He put his helmet down on the kitchen table.

"Dad?"

"In the living room."

Shawn draped his jacket over a chair and walked over into the living room.

And stopped short.

He closed his eyes, but it was too late. He had already seen it, and thanks to his near-perfect memory he'd never forget that he had seen it.

No amount of scrubbing would ever be able to erase this image from his retinas.

Shawn was sure that the image had burned itself into the surface of his eyes and would appear every time he closed his eyes, from this moment on for as long as he lived.

His father was standing in the living room, a few feet away from the TV which was turned on to some sort of fishing derby.

That as such was not unusual. In fact, it seemed all his father ever did was fishing or watch other people do the same thing on TV.

But his father wasn't sitting on the sofa. He was standing beside it, and in between him and the TV stood an ironing board. One of his father's Hawaiian shirts was adding further pain to Shawn's eyes as it lay on the board, the iron in Henry's hand hovering a few inches above the red and green floral pattern as Henry looked at Shawn.

Shawn grimaced.

"Oh my god. That has to be the single most disturbing thing I've ever seen in my entire life, and that includes witnessing Gus' entire Terence Trent d'Arby phase in all its glory."

Henry raised an eyebrow, his gaze going from Shawn to the ironing board in front of him and back again, as if he was trying to find out what could have possibly disturbed his son so much.

"What?"

"This!" Shawn gestured towards the ironing board and the basket with laundry standing beside it. "You going all housewife from the fifties. What's next? Shall I give you a lift for your pedicure appointment?"

Henry put the iron down on the board and folded his arms in front of his chest.

"It's ironing, Shawn. You should give it a try at times, then you wouldn't always look as if you had just fallen out of bed."  
"It's not normal."

Henry sighed and pulled the shirt from the board, put it on a hanger and hung it up on the window handle.

"Yes Shawn, it is. I wash the shirts, I put them in the dryer and when they come out they're all crumpled. So I iron them. I've been doing it for years now, and I don't see anything wrong with it."

"Oh, maybe not with the shirts alone. But what about the bubble baths? The pot roasts? The _whisk_?"

Henry unplugged the iron, straightened up and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Was there any particular reason for your visit, or did you just decide to drop by to randomly question my masculinity?"

Shawn rolled his eyes, but at that moment his cell phone rang.

"Hang on a second. And don't hold on to that thought, please."

He opened the phone and brought it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Spencer, this is Chief Vick."

"Chief. Are there any new developments that I should know about?"

For a moment, there was silence. When the Chief spoke again, there was something in her voice which Shawn couldn't quite define.

"Are you near a television right now?"

"Yeah, sure. Which channel should I put on?"

"Oh, I'm sure that in a few hours it won't matter anymore, but right now I think you might want to turn to WXSB."

A leaden feeling settled in Shawn's stomach as he reached for the remote and started switching through the channels under his father's surprised gaze. Seriously, his Dad was looking at him as if it was a crime to switch off the fishing derby. In Shawn's opinion, he should get an award for it.

"If you're talking about that reporter who stopped me earlier today, I didn't tell her anything."

"Really. Then how do you explain that your involvement in this case is all over the news?"

Shawn frowned, but then he had finally found the right channel on the TV.

"Hang on a second."  
He put the phone away from his ear and cranked up the volume a little. There was a shot of the Santa Barbara Police Station, with the caption underneath reading _Police powerless as Santa Barbara faces wave of hate crimes_.

A moment later, the caption changed to read _Psychic consultant hired as last hope of finding racist killers_.

Then there was a cut and Shawn found himself looking into the still heavily make-up covered face of Kara Bernadotti. She was standing on a small patch of lawn on the other side of the road that ran past the police station. Clearly, she had shot those pictures after Shawn had called the station and she had been kicked out of the parking lot.

With an artificial sincerity, Kara started speaking into the camera.

"Over the past weeks, Santa Barbara has become a melting pot of racial tension as more and more hate crimes have been committed. The tension between black and white people in the city began to culminate as it became public this afternoon that over the span of twelve days, three young black men have been brutally beaten to death. No details of these murders have been made public so far, and the SBPD refuses to give an official statement on the matter until a press conference at 6:00 pm tonight, which was announced an hour ago.

"But for nearly two weeks, the police have issued no official statement concerning the murders. Questions whether an attempt to hush up the true nature of these crimes were not commented on by the SBPD. However, it remains a legit question whether the police were trying to keep these murders hushed up to hide that they are not one step closer to solving them than they were twelve days ago.

"This afternoon I had the chance to interview Shawn Spencer, a local psychic detective, as he left the police station."

A picture-still of this afternoon's meeting between Shawn and Kara flashed up in the upper left corner of the screen. Shawn asked himself how long it had taken the people in the editing department to find a shot of him where he didn't openly glare at Kara, but it had worked. He wasn't smiling in the shot, but he also wasn't looking as uncomfortable or averse to his meeting with Kara as he had felt.

"While Mr. Spencer neither denied nor confirmed that he had been asked to consult on the case, he didn't need to actually say the words."

The picture in the corner changed to a full body shot of Shawn with the file Juliet had given him clutched in one hand. The camera shifted onto the file and zoomed in. Shawn hadn't even noticed that for a moment, the cameraman had shifted the focus of his filming.

The picture was slightly grainy, but still clear enough to make out the words _Richard Sinclair_ written on the cardboard cover.

With another fake smile, Kara continued. "As WXSB gathered, Richard Sinclair is the most recent victim to the series of hate-murders happening in Santa Barbara. Since he is in possession of the case file, the police obviously asked Shawn Spencer to consult on this case. The fact that the police feel the need to consult a psychic on this case is not comforting. Does that mean the police is incapable of catching killers who target their victim because of their skin color? Is it still safe for black and Hispanic people to leave their houses at night? Until the killers are caught, we are not so sure. And I openly ask – how can it be that an entire police force is incapable of protecting the people they have sworn to protect? The very people who are paying their salary? The Chief of Police Karen Vick has a lot of things to answer for when she faces the free press of this city in tonight's press conference. This is Kara Bernadotti for WXSB news. Stay tuned for the most recent developments."

Shawn switched off the TV and brought the phone back up to his ear.

"Chief?"

"They have been running this for the past fifteen minutes Mr. Spencer, and it doesn't look as if they're going to stop soon."

Shawn shook his head. "Chief, I swear I didn't tell her anything. She practically jumped at me when I came out of the station. I only wanted to get to my bike. I kept telling her to contact the press department."

"And you held the file out to her."

"I didn't hold anything out to her! I had the file in my hand because Juliet had just given it to me. I never thought I'd be filmed while walking the thirty feet from the front door to my bike."

"Do I need to tell you that in a situation like this, I can really not need any more pressure? In two hours, I'll be facing a mass of bloodthirsty reporters."

"I know, but it's not my fault Chief. Somebody tipped that newswoman off, otherwise she wouldn't have been in the parking lot in the first place. And she already knew about the three murders, so that thing would have hit the press today any way, whether or not she filmed me. Maybe you should try to find out who gave her that information instead of snapping at me for something I didn't want to happen in the first place."

There was a moment of silence on the line. Then Chief Vick sighed. "You didn't give her any statements?"

"Nothing but the advice to ask the Press Department if she wanted to know anything. I didn't give her any information at all. Come on Chief, I've consulted on cases before. How often have it talked to the press during an ongoing investigation?"

"Never."

"Never. That's right. And I'm sorry, but WXSB isn't exactly the birthplace of good journalism. So just hold that press conference and tell them that the police has hired me before. Tell them that you're using all possible resources to solve a case with next to none forensic evidence. Put the Mayor on stage and give them a run for their money. You know how to work a crowd like that, Chief. And if all else fails, put Lassiter up on the podium. They're definitely not going to ask any more questions after he has said a few words."  
Vick sighed again, but this time it sounded as if she was suppressing a slight chuckle.

"All right Mr. Spencer. But no talking to the press even now that those leeches knows what's going on. And for goodness' sake, go buy a backpack or something else to put confidential papers into. Don't go around carrying them in your hand!"  
Shawn rolled his eyes. "Will do Chief. I'll let you know as soon as I have anything."

Shawn hung up and put the phone away. His father was still standing in the same spot, eyes glued to the TV screen where Kara Bernadotti was once more spreading her message about the ineptitude of the Santa Barbara police. Shawn picked up the remote and switched the TV off.

Henry turned around towards him, a disapproving frown on his face.

"You talked to a reporter."

It was a statement, not a question, and maybe that was what enraged Shawn the most.

"I didn't frigging talk to her, all right? She stopped me on my way out of the station. I simply told her to talk to the Press Department. What do you think why she only has a photo still of that meeting on screen? She certainly doesn't want to show how she had to physically hold me back from driving away."  
Henry shook his head with a resigned sigh and went over into the kitchen.

Remembering his initial reason for the visit, namely grabbing a late lunch or an early dinner, Shawn followed.

He found Henry standing at the kitchen table, looking at the file Shawn had left lying on it.

"You should really consider buying a backpack. Or a briefcase."

"Yeah. Because briefcases are so exceptionally easy to transport on a motorcycle. Not to mention that they're so fashionable."

Henry shook his head. "So, do you need any help on this case?"

"Nope." Shawn shook his head. "I actually came here to see if you had lunch yet."

Both Henry's eyebrows silently rose up towards his nonexistent hairline. "It's after four pm. I had lunch about three hours ago."

"Any leftovers?"

With another sigh, Henry rolled his eyes and sat down in a chair. "In the fridge."

Shawn went over, opened the fridge and located a plate with chicken and mashed potatoes. He took it out, put it into the microwave and set the timer.

Henry watched him do it, his fingers pushing a placemat to and fro as he bit his lower lip in thought. Finally, he drew another deep breath.  
"So, Karen hired you to consult on this case, right?"

Shawn took a soda out of the fridge, carried it over towards the table and put it down.

"Yes, she did."

The microwave beeped, and Shawn took out the plate with the steaming food. He carried it over towards the table and sat down.

Henry watched Shawn eat for a few moments, but Shawn could already tell from the expression on his father's face that there was something he wanted to get off his chest.

Finally, he put down his fork. "All right, just spit it out."

"What?"

"It's obvious that you want to say something. So what is it?"

Henry sighed. "How much of what they said on the news is true?"

Shawn laughed as he shoveled another mouthful of mashed potatoes with gravy into his mouth. "Weren't you the one who taught me never to believe anything I heard on the news?"

"Shawn."

Shawn sighed and speared another piece of chicken onto his fork. "There have been three murders over the past two weeks. Three black men who were brutally beaten and then killed. Two of them were stabbed, on had his head smashed against a metal pole. I've found out about another similar case a few days before the first murder, only that in this case the victim survived. The police can't find him right now, but I want to go looking for him later on."

Henry nodded and thought about it for a moment.

"And the police thinks that the crimes are racially motivated."

Shawn nodded and put the last piece of chicken into his mouth. "Yes, they do." He said with his mouth full of chicken. Seeing his father's disapproving glare, he quickly chewed and swallowed.

"There's this guy, Adam Wagner. He's the founder of a skinhead group called the White Resistance. Obviously, he's preaching violence against blacks over the internet, and the result is a raising number of hate crimes all over California. And now three black people have been beaten to death here in Santa Barbara in less than a week. Nothing connects the victims in any way other than the fact that they're black. Everything else but a racial background would be one hell of a coincidence."

Henry silently deliberated for a moment. Then he nodded, as if he had come to a decision.

"You're going to stay out of this."

Shawn thought he had not heard right. "What?"

"I want you to stay out of this case, Shawn."

Shawn didn't really know whether he was supposed to laugh or not. "Dad, I'm thirty years old. You can't tell me what to do and what not to do. Besides, the Chief already hired me for the case. What am I supposed to do, back out now?"

"I don't care what it does to your reputation as a psychic detective, I want you off this case."

"It doesn't work like that. I'm going to work this case, and I will find out who killed those men. Why are you suddenly freaking out like that?"

Henry laughed, though there was no mirth behind it. "I'm not freaking out, kid. I'm just giving you a piece of well-meant advice."

"No, you were giving me orders. What's going on with you?"

Henry sighed and got up from his chair. Shawn watched him pace up and down the length of the kitchen for a few seconds.

"Dad, what's going on?"

"I don't want you to mix with racists Shawn."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "I wasn't planning on throwing them a barbeque once we figure out who they are."

"I didn't mean it like that, and you damn well know that. But these people will stop at nothing. If they go around randomly beating people do death, what do you think they're going to do if they find out you're after them?"

"Come on Dad, I can watch out for myself."

Henry shook his head. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"Oh, I get it. I get that the police asked me to help on a case they're stuck on. A case with little to no forensic evidence – DNA that isn't in the system, some boot prints that aren't distinguished enough to get them any further and three dead victims that aren't connected in any way. And now you want me to get off the case. Well, fat chance of that happening Dad. Not if I can be the one to find the evidence that leads the police to those killers. I can't just back down and wait for them to beat another person to death. One of the victims had a three year old daughter, Dad. I can't back out just like that. I need to find those people."

"And what if they find you first?"

Shawn shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"Your involvement in this case is all over the news. By tomorrow morning it'll be all over the papers. What do you think is going to stop those guys from going after you if they think you're getting too close? What is going to stop them from going after Gus?"

"What's Gus got to do with everything? You said it yourself, it's my name that's on the news. Not Gus'. Even if those guys are clever enough to read the papers and figure out that I might catch them, they're going to come after me."

Henry shook his head again and watched Shawn for a long moment, as if trying to determine whether or not Shawn was kidding him.

"Gus is black, Shawn. You're dealing with racists here, racists who are so ready for violence that they don't have any hesitation to beat people to death. If you publicly involve yourself in this case you're putting yourself _and_ Gus in harm's way."

"But I am already publicly involved in this case Dad. There's no taking that back now anyway. I am working this case Dad. Without my help, it's going to take them forever to find those guys. I'll keep Gus out of it as much as I can, but I can't just stop working the case."

Henry shook his head again and sank back down into a chair. "I don't like this."

"If I had a dollar for every time you didn't like something I was doing, I'd never have to work again a day in my life. I'm sorry Dad, but I am going to work this case and you won't stop me."

Henry only sighed. "Just…don't do any idiotic forays without backup. And by backup I don't mean Gus."

Shawn nodded. "You know me."

"That's why I'm telling you. Be careful Shawn."

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, I'll be careful."

He pushed his chair back and got up. "I gotta go. I need to catch up with Gus after he finishes work. Thanks for lunch Dad."

Shawn quickly grabbed his jacket and the files before his father could start another tirade about what he was supposed to do and what not. A minute later he was sitting on his bike again, driving towards the Psych office.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think. Thanks.


	5. No more subtle than a dead rat

Here you go with the next chapter. The plot doth start to thicken from now on.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 4 – No more subtle than a dead rat in the mailbox**

"Tell me again, what are we doing here if the police has already spoken to her?"

Shawn looked at Gus from the passenger seat of Gus' car, a retort already on his lips. But he swallowed it down. No need to get into yet another argument with Gus. Shawn was glad enough that his friend seemed to be in a much better mood than he had been earlier when he had stormed out of the office.

Shawn had been half-worried that Gus would simply leave him standing in the parking lot of Central Coast Pharmaceuticals as he came out of the building after finishing up his work for the day. But whatever Gus had done in between storming out of Psych office and coming out of his second office, he seemed to have let off some steam.

He even refused to talk to Shawn about anything involving the words _Tom_, _grandmother_ and _pamper_ _pole_.

Right, so Shawn wasn't particularly keen ever to use the words pamper pole again anyway, but in all honesty he'd have thought for his friend's anger to last a bit longer. He knew what kind of a drama queen Gus could be about things, even if those things weren't really Shawn's fault.

But for tonight, Shawn decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and simply accept that Gus was ready and willing to visit Walter Pritchett's mother with him. Even if that meant he'd have to explain the same things over and over again.

"Obviously, Pritchett has a reason why he doesn't want to talk to the police. Otherwise he'd have called them after he was beaten up already. So if Pritchett has a reason not to trust the police, his mother probably does, too. My guess is she wants to protect her son, that's why she didn't talk to Lassie and Jules earlier. But maybe she doesn't have the same reservations with us."

Gus got out of the car and locked the doors. "Oh yes? And what if he's involved in something illegal? What if he's running a drug ring, or selling weapons, or something else? And what if his mother is his accomplice? Then we're running straight into our doom."  
Shawn raised both eyebrows. "Straight into our doom? Have you been watching _Buffy_ again? Really, our city wasn't built on the mouth of hell. Besides Gus, let's be a little realistic. If you were running a drug ring or dealt with illegal weapons, would you involve your _mother_ in it?"

Gus grimaced. "No."

"See? There, question answered."

"But that's because my mother would kill me if I ever even thought about something like that."

"Gus, every mother should seriously reconsider her maternal instincts if she actually wanted to support her son in his illegal drug and weapon trafficking. And now could we maybe focus on the task at hand and see what we can get out of Mrs. Pritchett?"

Gus shrugged and gestured for Shawn to take the lead. Shawn walked up to the apartment building they had parked in front of and walked inside through the open front door.

Mrs. Doris Pritchett, sixty years old now and a widow for the past ten of them, was living in one of the apartment buildings on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. Not the best area to live in, but not the worst, either. Not high-prized, but the houses were relatively well-kept and the streets were mostly safe at night.

Mrs. Pritchett lived with her son Walter in an apartment on the third floor. Shawn and Gus took the stairs since the elevator was out of order, and walked down a long and narrow corridor towards apartment 3C. When they reached it, Shawn stood in front of the door and gestured for Gus to remain behind him, in the background where she'd be able to see him but not directly in front of the door.  
Shawn knocked.

At first there was no reaction from inside, but then Shawn's ears picked up the sound of hushed voices from behind the door. He thought he could make something out, but he wasn't entirely sure. He made a mental note of it, but the sound of steps on the floor inside the flat stopped him from thinking about it any further. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, then the door opened a few inches, just as wide as the security chain would allow.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Pritchett?"

Dark brown eyes were watching Shawn attentively and also a little suspiciously. He couldn't see Mrs. Pritchett clearly through the narrow gap, but she was maybe a head smaller than him, her face showing surprisingly few wrinkles for her age. Her dark hair was streaked with grey and pulled back into a tight bun at the back of her neck.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"My name is Shawn Spencer, ma'am." While he spoke, Shawn let his eyes surreptitiously roam over the little of the hallway he could see behind Mrs. Pritchett small form. Hallway coat rack. A door leading to the living room. Freshly laundered clothes on hangers hung up over a door to the left. "I'm a psychic, and I'm looking for your son Walter."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you want from Walter? I already told the police that I have no idea where he is. He left town to look for work. That was three weeks ago."

Shawn shook his head. "We're not the police, Mrs. Pritchett. And we know that Walter was in town a little over two weeks ago. He went into the free clinic on Maple Street to get treatment after he was beaten badly. His brother brought him to the clinic. I'm trying to catch the people who did this to your son."

Mrs. Pritchett shook her head, though something flashed over her face for a moment when Shawn mentioned the beating.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Walter left the city three weeks ago to look for work. My son Carl is at work in the factory, I'm at home alone right now. Nobody did anything wrong, we're just trying to live in peace. Leave us alone."

She made move to close the door, but Shawn put a hand against it. He didn't exert any real pressure though, he didn't want to scare her.

"Mrs. Pritchett, the people who hurt Walter, they're still doing this. They've already killed three people. I only want to talk to Walter, I won't cause him any trouble. He doesn't have to go to the police, I only want to ask him some questions."

Mrs. Pritchett only shook her head again. "I'm sorry. Whatever it is you're after, we don't have anything to do with it. And now I must ask you to leave."

Shawn nodded and let go of the door. Mrs. Pritchett immediately closed it, but didn't release the security chain again. Shawn couldn't hear her steps walk away from the door though, which meant that she was still standing behind the door waiting for them to leave. He turned around.

"Come on Gus, let's go."

Once they were outside the building and back at the car, Shawn cast a glance up at the building. He did some quick thinking to remind himself where apartment 3C had been located and looked up at the windows. And true enough, the curtain in one of the windows was pulled to the side slightly. Shawn couldn't see anybody standing behind the window, but somebody was watching them. Mrs. Pritchett, probably.

He cast his eyes away and got into the car.

"Well, that was a waste of time." Gus said as he started the car.

Shawn only shook his head. "No, it wasn't."

Gus turned towards Shawn with a frown, but Shawn didn't immediately answer the silent question. His mind was too busy analyzing the few things he had learned over the past minutes, trying to put them in the right order.

"Why wasn't it a waste of time?"

Shawn smiled as he realized just how much sense it suddenly all made.

"Because I know where Walter is."

Gus looked at Shawn, his expression totally dumbfolded. "What? But how? No forget that, never mind. Where?"

"Highsmith and Ninth. I think we should pay him a visit."

Twenty minutes later, Gus pulled his car up in front of the car repair shop at the corner of Highsmith and Ninth. He drove into the lot and killed the engine, then he turned towards Shawn.

"All right, I've indulged you so far and let you have your moment of triumph. How about you tell me now how you know that Walter Pritchett is here?"

Shawn smiled and unbuckled his seat belt.

"There were clothes hanging over a door in the apartment. Freshly washed and laundered work-jumpsuits. Jumpsuit's with the logo of _Benny's Auto Repair_ on the back, and this is the only _Benny's Auto Repair_ that I know of. Mrs. Pritchett said her other son was working in a factory, so they can't be his. Ergo, I think our missing Walter Pritchett works here."

"And what makes you think that he is here now?"

Shawn shrugged. "He was attacked in the evening, so I figure he doesn't do the night shift. I don't know if a legal car shop even does night shifts, come to think of it. Car shops that are no chop shops, I mean. The clinic on Maple is the closes clinic one what would be Walter's way home from work, so I guess he was caught by our killers when he went home from work that night. As for the question of whether he's here right now, I'd say we just have a look."

They got out of the car and walked over into the car repair shop through the doors of the working area. A man in a jumpsuit just like the one Shawn had seen in the apartment earlier, only a lot more dirty and stained with oil and grease, was working on an old VW bug on the lifting platform.

"Hello!" Shawn called out.

The man turned away from the car and looked over at Shawn and Gus.

Shawn was immediately sure that they were facing Walter Pritchett, even though his jumpsuit didn't have a nametag. But he looked just the same as in the picture of his driver's license Shawn had seen. Or as much the same as it was possible.

It had been more than two weeks since he had been beaten, but the traces were still clearly visible. Most of all in the long cut on his forehead, just below his hairline, that had required the majority of the twenty-four stitches Pritchett had received to his head. His right eye was still swollen, the eyebrow healing and scabbing over where it had split during the beating. The skin on his right cheek also looked swollen and puffy, and he was moving with great care as he came a few steps towards them, just as if he was still aching in many places. It was difficult to tell from a distance and with his naturally dark skin, but Shawn thought he was still bruised all over. In his right hand Pritchett was holding a screwdriver, and the bandage covering the last two fingers of his right hand was stained black from working on cars all day.

"Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

Pritchett had a very deep voice, strangely at odds with his otherwise small frame.

"Walter Pritchett?"

Immediately, the expression on Pritchett's face changed. His jaw set into a firm line and his eyes flitted from left to right as if searching for the fastest exit route. His right hand, Shawn noticed, was clutching the screwdriver like a weapon.

Slowly, Shawn raised both hands a bit.

"Relax Mr. Pritchett. We're not from the police. And we're not from Immigration, either."

Pritchett frowned, and beside him, Shawn could hear Gus utter a small sound of confusion.

"What?" Pritchett finally pressed out from behind clenched teeth.

"My name is Shawn Spencer. I'm a psychic, and the police hired me to help them find the people who keep beating black people to death here in Santa Barbara."

"What should I have to do with that?" Pritchett was still holding the screwdriver tightly, as if preparing to stab any moment now, and Shawn didn't quite dare to move.

"I know that those people also beat you up, Mr. Pritchett. I don't know what exactly happened, but you survived it. You were soaking wet when you were brought into the clinic by your brother, so I guess that you fell into the water at some point. That might have saved your life. And now I'm hoping that you can help me. I need to know what happened when you were attacked. Maybe you remember something, anything, that could help us find these people before they kill somebody else."

Pritchett was looking every bit like a man fighting an internal battle, but he shook his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Shawn ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. Pritchett twitched slightly, but while he didn't raise the screwdriver he also didn't loosen his grip on the tool at all.

"Mr. Pritchett, I told you that I'm not from Immigration. And you don't have to talk to the police either, not if you don't want to. But you might have information that could help find these killers."

"Why would you think I'd be worried about Immigration controls?"

Pritchett tried to keep his voice level, but the nervous bopping of his Adam's apple betrayed him.

"Because you're hiding a woman in your mother's apartment. A woman who speaks Spanish, and who your mother is adamant about not leaving the bedroom when someone's at the door. My guess is that it's your girlfriend, no wait…" Shawn brought his fingers up to his temple. "Your fiancé. And she isn't in the country legally. That's why you didn't go to the police and report it when you were beaten up by those people. You were worried that with the police investigating, she would be discovered and had to leave the country."

Pritchett swallowed heavily, but his dead-grip on the screwdriver loosened somewhat.

"Listen Mr. Pritchett." Shawn tried to keep his voice as level as possible. "Three people are dead already. One of them had a little daughter. I don't want to cause you any trouble, I only want to find out who these people are so that the police can stop them before they kill somebody else. I don't want you to get into any trouble, and I don't want to cause your girlfriend any trouble. But you are the only person we could find who might know anything about these people. Anything at all. We need your help, Mr. Pritchett."

Pritchett watched Shawn for a few long seconds, then his eyes flitted to Gus who was standing beside Shawn, and back again.

"I won't talk to the police."  
Shawn nodded. "Okay. No police. Please just tell us what happened."

Pritchett nodded. "All right. But I need to finish this."

He gestured towards the VW. Shawn nodded.

"Sure, just go ahead."

Pritchett stepped back towards the front left side of the car and continued to work on the brakes of the car. He seemed a lot more relaxed now that he was a few feet away from Shawn and Gus.

"I had to walk home that night. Normally my brother Carl picks me up, but he was home sick that day. So I walked. I always lock up here at nine, half past nine. That day it was half past nine. It's a bit of a walk, but I walk the route by the harbor when Carl can't come to pick me up. There's always something to look at, the time seems to pass more quickly."

Pritchett put away the screwdriver and pulled out a forceps. Again his arm vanished into the bowels of the car as he continued.

"There never aren't any cars or people in the area of the harbor that I pass when I walk home at night. But that night, there was. There was a car coming towards me. I didn't really pay any mind to it at first. After all it is a public road. I just kept on walking. But when the car was getting closer, the driver suddenly hit the upper beams and revved he engine. I got spooked, but I still thought it was just an asshole, or a drunk driver trying to scare me. And then they drove that car up the sidewalk and towards me, and I knew it wasn't just some asshole trying to spook me. I started running, away from the road and onto the harbor grounds."

Gus frowned. "Isn't the harbor area fenced off?"

Pritchett shook his head. "Not there. The loading docks and the places where they store stuff are fenced off. But over where I was it's just a work area, pretty much abandoned these days. There was a fence once, but it's down in many places and nobody ever bothered to replace it. So I ran over there and hoped to find a place to hide from them. But they followed me. I managed to cover a few hundred yards but they were in the car, and the area is empty enough so that I couldn't hide anywhere. I was a sitting duck."

He shook his head again and watched the forceps in his hand as if he was seeing a device like this for the first time in his life. Shawn noticed that his hand was trembling slightly.

"It all went so fast. There were four of them, and suddenly they had caught up with me and got out of the car. They were all wearing those ski-masks, you know? The ones that leave only a slit to look through. I didn't see any faces, I was so scared. I just knew, you know? I knew that if they chased me down onto an empty harbor area with their car, they didn't just want to taunt me. I thought I was going to die. So I tried to run again."

Pritchett's hand was shaking more badly now, and he put down the forceps and leaned heavily against the trolley with tools that was standing beside the lifting platform.

"I didn't get very far. Suddenly there was a hand on my arm yanking me back. _Is the nigger trying to run_? That's what the guy said. _You can't run away from us, nigger_. And then something exploded in my head."

Unconsciously, his hand went up to finger the still healing cut on his forehead.

"He hit me with something. I don't know what it was, but I was too dazed to do anything for a moment. They were hooting and laughing at me, and before I could even think something halfway coherent the guy was behind me and was holding me by my arms as the other three came up on me. I struggled, I really tried, but they were three and I was still totally dazed. I had blood all over my face and couldn't even see right. And it all happened so fast. That one guy was holding me so that I couldn't get away, and the other three suddenly were on to me. They hit me in the stomach and it all just…"

Pritchett shook his head again and ran a hand through this close-cropped hair with a sigh.

"I can't even remember much. It's all a blur. I ended up on the ground and they just kept coming at me. I don't really remember most of it. What they said, yes. They were constantly saying things, cheering and laughing."

"What things?" Shawn asked, careful to keep his voice as neutral as possible.  
Pritchett only shrugged. "The usual insults. They kept yelling _nigger_, _dirty nigger_. And they were enjoying that I was in pain. _He's bleeding like a pig_ one of them said. And _stay away from the blood, who knows what diseases the dirty pig has_. Then one of them said _he won't be bleeding for much longer_, and that was when I knew they wanted to kill me. I was on the ground and the guy was no longer holding me back, so I scrambled back to my feet. I pushed the one of them who was behind me out of the way. I don't know how, or where the energy came from. I was hurting all over, but I was only thinking that I had to try and run. I didn't even see where I was going. Next thing I know, suddenly the ground was gone and I was falling."

Shawn nodded. "You fell into the water."

"Yes." Pritchett grimaced at the memory. "I thought for sure that I was going to drown, but somehow I managed to get back to the surface. And then they were there, standing up on the dock staring into the water. I couldn't see them, it was too dark. But that meant they couldn't see me either. I could hear them, though. They were arguing. _He's getting away_, one of them said. _We need to get him out_. And then the other guy, the one who had first punched me, told that first guy to get into the water and look for me if he thought he had to. He said I was going to drown anyway, and that they needed to leave before somebody happened to come by. That was the last I heard."

Pritchett picked up the screwdriver again, his hands still shaking slightly, and went back towards the car.

"I didn't hear anything after that, but I remember that I thought they were only waiting for me to climb back out. There was a ladder a few feet away, and I managed to get to it. But I didn't climb up. I was convinced that if I climbed up, they'd be waiting up there for me and would finish what they had started. I heard car doors slam somewhere and a car driving off, but still I didn't climb up. I was convinced that if I did, they'd kill me. So I just clung to that ladder, up to my chest in the water, and waited. I don't know for what. Everything was hurting, I was still bleeding, and after a while I started shaking because I was so cold. And then I just…I had to climb out. If I didn't, I'd be dead anyway. So I heaved myself up the ladder.

"I barely managed, and when I reached the top the whole area was empty. They were really gone. I think I blacked out for a while then. When I came to again, I got back to my feet and stumbled away. It took me endlessly to get back to the road, and even longer to find a phone. I called my brother, and he picked me up."

"Why didn't you call an ambulance?"

Pritchett shook his head again. "I didn't even want to go to the hospital. They would have called the cops, and the cops would have found Inez. I just…I just wanted to forget that it had ever happened. But Carl didn't leave me a choice. He loaded me into the car and drove me to the free clinic. They ask a lot less questions there, and they jut treat you, they don't keep people overnight because they simply don't have the beds. I got my stitches and treatments, and then I went home and tried to forget this had happened. Until my mother told me about the police dropping by this morning."

Shawn ran a hand through his hair with a small sigh. Now he knew that he had been right, but in the end that didn't bring him any closer to finding the people who had done this, either.

"Is there anything you remember? Any detail that might help us find those people?"

Pritchett shook his head. "I don't think so. As I said, a lot of things about that night are a blur."

"Do you remember the make of the car? The color maybe?"

Again, Pritchett shook his head. "No. It was a dark car, but I couldn't tell you whether it was black or blue. And I didn't see what kind of car it was. I mean, I probably should have recognized the model, what with all the cars I work on every day. But I just didn't look at it. Even if I think back, all I see is those headlights coming towards me."

"What about the people? Anything that stood out about them?"

"I don't know." Pritchett put the screwdriver down and started chewing on his lip. "There were four of them, that's all I'm sure about. It's difficult. The little I remember, there was nothing that stood out. No accents, nothing. They weren't too old I think, but I'm not sure."

"Anything about their clothing?"

Pritchett shrugged. "Not really. I didn't really look at what they were wearing. I only saw those ski masks and didn't look at anything else."

Shawn sighed. "That's all right Mr. Pritchett. I was just hoping that there might be something."

"The police have no idea who those people are?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. And they don't know where they should start looking for them."

"I want to help, I really do. But there's simply nothing I remember. Nothing that stood out to me. All I see when I think back is four figures in masks who were beating me. The one who held me was very strong. I tried to struggle free, but I never had the chance. His grip was simply too strong. I had bruises on my wrists from where he held me. You could clearly see the indentation from the ring." A frown suddenly spread across Pritchett's face. "He was wearing a ring."

"What kind of ring?" Shawn asked, hoping that Pritchett would be able to trigger some more memories about it.

The man turned his eyes towards the ceiling as he tried to remember. "I don't know what kind of ring. I only saw it for a moment. I didn't even remember until now. It had some sort of symbols on it."

"Symbols?"

Pritchett shrugged. "I have no idea what kind of symbols. Letters or something. I could try to write them down."

Gus immediately reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a notebook and a pen which he held out to Pritchett. The man was handling the pen a little awkwardly with two of his fingers still bandaged, and he was trying to make the drawing without leaving any grease and oil stains in Gus' notebook. His face was pulled into a frown as he drew, and he didn't look entirely satisfied when he handed the notebook and pen back.

"It's not exactly what it looked like. Does it help?"

Shawn took one look at the crude drawing and the synapses in his brain started flashing. "I think it's going to help a lot. Thanks Mr. Pritchett."

Pritchett shrugged. "If it helps finding those people."

Shawn tore the page out of the notebook and put it into his pocket. Handing the notebook back to Gus, he held out his hand.

"Thanks a lot for all your help, Mr. Pritchett."

Pritchett shook the offered hand with a slightly embarrassed smile, seeing that his fingers were still covered in grease and oil. Shawn withdrew the piece of paper with Pritchett's drawing again, tore off the empty half and wrote a number down on it.

"If there's anything else you remember, or if those people come after you again, call me. Or call the police and ask for Detective O'Hara. She'll be able to help, and if you don't mention Inez, nobody is going to ask any questions."

Pritchett took the paper with Shawn's number and nodded. "Thanks. But now I should really be getting back to work."

"Sure, we won't keep you."

They said their goodbyes and Shawn and Gus left the car shop and walked back towards Gus' car.

"So, what was on that paper?" Gus asked as they got into the car. "I won't wait for the entire drive again until you tell me what this is about."

Shawn buckled his seat belt and pulled out the paper with the drawing again.

"We just got ourselves a clue. Granted, it's not clear, but I'm fairly sure that it's meant to be letters that were on that ring. Once we're back at the office we're just going to google that and then we might know a lot more about that guy."

Gus took the piece of paper out of Shawn's hand and looked at the drawing. He shook his head with a laugh.

"Google it? Seriously Shawn? We don't need to google anything."

"What, you're saying you can actually read that?"

Gus nodded. "Of course I can. Come on Shawn, it's not that difficult. I mean, of course the drawing is a little awkward, but it's still obvious. It's Greek."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Of course it is. How could I miss that. Gus, would you care to tell me when you learned Greek?"

"Eighth grade geometry? Like everybody else who paid only a little attention to class and didn't simply stare at Connie Franklin's pigtails all the time."

"Gus, I swear those things had a life of their own. They moved! You try paying attention to math class if there's somebody sitting in front of you whose pigtails are creeping all over the place. Besides, that's totally unimportant now. What are those letters?"

Gus shrugged and handed the paper back to Shawn. "Pi Sigma Delta."

"No thanks, I'm not hungry."

"Pi Sigma Delta, Shawn." Gus sighed in frustration. "It's a fraternity."

Shawn's eyebrows went up and a smile appeared on his face. "Pajama-clad co-eds. Again."

Gus shook his head. "You really, really should have gone to college Shawn. The co-eds you're looking for you'll find in a sorority. Fraternities are for guys. It comes from the Latin word frater, which…"

"All right, I get it." Shawn knew that if he didn't interrupt Gus now, the lecture would never stop. "No pajama-clad co-eds."

"Well, there might be."

Shawn turned towards Gus, simply looked at him for a moment, then he shook his head. "I won't even dignify that with an answer, Gus. So, we know that one of our guys is a member of a fraternity. They're local?"

Gus nodded. "As far as I know."

"Right. That sounds like something that qualifies as news for the Chief, don't you think?"

Gus put the key in the ignition and started the car. "Then let's go to the station."

Shawn shook his head. "Let's go check them out first."

"What do you mean, check them out? Do you want to go there and surreptitiously ask them whether they have any racist killers on their membership roster? I hate to break it to you, but I doubt that's going to work."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Come on Gus. Trust me to be a little more inconspicuous."

"Shawn, if there is one thing you definitely are not, then it's inconspicuous."

"Would you just drive?"

Gus sighed but put the car into gear and started driving. It took them half an hour to reach the campus, and when they finally found a parking space and got out of the car, it was already beginning to go dark.

"So where's the Pie Simply Dilemma house?"

"Pi Sigma Delta Shawn. Don't pretend you don't remember exactly what it's called."

"Yeah, whatever." Shawn waved him off. "So where is it?"

Gus simply walked over towards a plan of the campus that hung on a post at the parking lot entrance and studied it.

"It should be over there." He gestured to their left. They started walking into the direction Gus had indicated, until after maybe five minutes they reached a lone-standing brick house, the walls of which were overgrown with ivy.

The streetlamps on campus were already on, and inside the house the lights were burning on the ground floor. Curtains blocked their view inside, but somehow Shawn had always imagined a fraternity house to look different. Well, maybe not look different, but to be different. More of a constant coming and going, and a lot of partying. Wasn't that what college was all about? Or at least mostly about?

But this place was eerily silent. True, it as a weekday, but still. The semester had only just begun, surely the fraternity brothers weren't all studying already.

"So what now?" Gus asked form beside Shawn. "You wanna sneak around the back and hide in the underbrush until you see something suspicious?"

Shawn raised both eyebrows, actually contemplating the thought for a moment. But then he shook his head.

"Nah, no stakeout tonight. I need a good reason to get eaten by bugs, and staring at a fraternity house is really what I'd call a good reason. I jus wanted to see the place. Do you think they'll let us in?"

"As non-members of the fraternity? We're not even college students. I doubt it."

"We could pass for college students."

Gus shook his head. "Shawn, your face is in the papers on a regular basis. I doubt that excuse is going to hold up for very long. Somebody is bound to recognize you."

Shawn nodded. That was of course right. The more popularity and media attention Psych got, the more often Shawn was recognized. It wasn't always helpful, especially not while they were working cases.

"All right, then maybe we should get to the station."

Shawn started walking, but stopped when he noticed that Gus wasn't following. He walked back towards him.

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? We came here just for this? Just for a look at the fraternity house?"

A group of students came walking towards them, and Shawn waited until they had passed.

"You said they weren't going to let us in. So there's really no use in sticking around for as long as we don't have anything else to go on. Let's give the Chief a reason to pull the fraternity's membership list, maybe there'll be somebody suspicious on the list."

Gus rolled his eyes, but he started walking back into the direction of the car. "I really don't know why I bother with this. Sometimes, I really don't know Shawn. We could have gone to the station immediately, but no. We had to come here just for a look at the house."

Shawn shook his head and followed his friend. "Really dude. You still have a lot to learn about reconnaissance."

"Shut up, Shawn."

"Okay."

Shawn rolled his eyes and dodged through a group of students who were coming towards them. The last classes of the day seemed to have ended, Shawn and Gus had to walk through a steady stream of students who were all hurrying back to their dormitories on their way back to their car.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

There was nothing Chief Vick could do that night.

All right, so by the time they had arrived at the police station, she had just been about to leave after a double shift. But still.

Shawn had expected a little more enthusiasm.

After all, he had found a new lead.

And he had really put some effort into his psychic vision this time. Though honestly there had been no other choice. Pi Sigma Delta? Come on, he simply had to use a song as an opener for that one. Though he had been a little surprised that not the Chief or Juliet, but Lassiter of all people had been the one to recognize Shawn's rendition of _American Pie_.

There hadn't been any good songs containing the words Sigma or Delta, but then again Shawn didn't know whether he'd have sung those even if he had known any. It had taken a mixture between pantomime and cheerleading to get the message through to the detectives, but luckily Juliet had saved Shawn before his show had gotten embarrassing. A grown many could only try to use his body to form a Greek letter for so long before it became ridiculous.

So now the police knew about the fraternity, and that the spirits had led Shawn to believe that it was worth checking out because one of the killers might be a member.

And what had Chief Vick done? She had gone home.

True, she had told Lassiter to get a membership list and have somebody run the names through the system to see what the results were, but then she had gone home. And Lassiter had made it pretty clear that he was not going to share any information they might find out that way with Shawn, not if he didn't absolutely have to.

In the end, it had left Shawn with no choice but to go home.

It would take some time before the police had the list, and even more time before they had run every name on that list through the system. And if there were any really important developments, Juliet would call.

No reason why Shawn shouldn't get home and try to grab some sleep.

And now it was half past eight the next morning, and still neither Juliet nor the Chief had called. Shawn decided that it was about time to go to the office and see whether there were any messages waiting for him there. And if not, he'd simply have to go to the station and see how far the detectives had gotten with the list on his own. Oh, and somewhere along the way he should maybe try and find out what Gus' working schedule looked like today.

The morning traffic was light, and it didn't take Shawn long to reach the office. He parked the bike on the side of the building, took off his helmet and walked around the corner.

And stopped.

For a moment, Shawn simply stared, trying to figure out what was wrong with this picture.

It didn't take long to find out, but quite a few moments until the message had arrived at the right synapses in his brain.

This was not good.

Not taking his eyes off of the front of the office, Shawn took out his cell phone and blindly hit a number on his speed dial.

"Burton Guster."

"Gus, do you have routes to make this morning?"

"No, Dr. Youngerman just called and cancelled a few minutes ago. Why?"

"I really think you should come down to the office."

There was a moment of silence, but Gus didn't ask for an explanation. "Okay. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Shawn hung up wordlessly and took a few steps closer to the office. Broken glass covered the sidewalk in front and crunched under his feet as he dialed another number and brought the phone back up to his ear.

"O'Hara."  
"Good morning Juliet."

"Shawn! I was just about to call you. We have the membership list of the fraternity, but we're not yet finished running it through the computer."

Shawn nodded absent-mindedly. "Good. Then you have time."

There was a pause. "Time? Time for what?"

"To come down to the Psych office. You could say that I'm calling on official business. Somebody broke into the office last night."

Carefully, Shawn looked through the empty space where the front window had been located once.

"There was a break in? Was anything stolen?"

"It's a bit hard to say right now, Jules. But I don't think they were after the valuables. At least not after taking them."

"But who could have done that?"

Shawn's eyes roamed through the thrashed office, over the torn papers lying everywhere, the smashed lamps and broken chairs, until they settled on the graffiti messages sprayed all over the walls.

Shawn straightened up again and ran a hand through his hair.

"I have no idea Jules. But from what I see it was somebody who knows how to spell the word _nigger_, but who has no idea that _faggot_ is actually spelled with two g."

"I'll get Lassiter. We'll be there in a few minutes. Don't touch anything."

Juliet hung up and Shawn slowly lowered his own phone. He had no desire to touch anything in that office right now. Right now, there was nothing in there that didn't have sharp edges.

Shawn walked a few feet away from the office, looked for a place on the sidewalk that wasn't covered in shards from the front window, and sat down.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks.


	6. It's my life, but thanks for asking

Here you go with the next chapter. The plot thickens... ;-)

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 5 – It's my life, but thanks for asking**

Shawn has been sitting on the sidewalk for not even five minutes when Lassiter's red car pulled up, followed by a black and white with two uniformed officers. Shawn got up as Lassiter and Juliet got out of the car. Lassiter pulled off his sunglasses and looked at the smashed front window for a long moment, then followed Juliet over towards Shawn.

"Thanks for coming so quick."

"Shawn, what happened here?"

Shawn shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't quite possess. "I guess somebody doesn't want us to investigate the case. Either that, or somebody really didn't like the interior design of the office."

"Did you touch anything?"

Lassiter's voice was gruff, and Shawn rewarded the question with a frown and a shake of his head. "Lassie, it's my office. My prints are all over the place anyway. But I haven't been inside, if that's what you mean. I only looked in through the remains of our front window."

Lassiter took a look through the window as well, then he turned towards the two officers who had come with them in the black and white.

"All right, Hendricks, Vaughn, looks like a break in and vandalism. You know the drill. Evidence, prints, pictures."

The two officers nodded and donned their gloves before they entered the office through the front door. The first thing Shawn had noticed upon arriving here had been the smashed window, but the few minutes wait for Juliet and Lassiter had been enough to discover that the lock of the front door had been broken out of the wood. Whoever had done this had probably smashed the window last. It must have been loud when the window broke into pieces, and the danger that somebody might have heard was big. No, if those had been clever breakers and enterers, they had saved the window for last.

"All right Spencer, tell me what happened."

Shawn shrugged. "Not much to tell. When I left the station yesterday I went home. And when I came here this morning, this is what I found."  
"When was the last time you were here?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I left around four."  
"And you didn't notice anything suspicious?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Like what? A bunch of guys with cans of spray-paint and baseball bats waiting in front of the office as I left? No Lassie, I didn't notice anything like that."

Lassiter drew a breath as if he had to calm himself. "Any idea who could have done this?"

Shawn frowned and his eyes skirted back to look through the smashed window at the graffiti covering the walls of the office.

"I don't know any names. But considering what they did to he place, I'd say it's connected to the case."

"Do you think so?"

"Lassie, I don't know whether you took a look at the inside of the office when you came here. But let me tell you that I don't know any people who would leave the words _nigger-loving faggot_ spray-painted over the walls. And even if I did people who used words like that, I'm pretty sure they'd at least be able to spell them right!"

Lassiter sighed. "I need to ask this, Spencer. If you knew anything about police procedures, you'd know that I need to ask."

Shawn sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I know that."  
Lassiter nodded. "Good. You called Guster?"

Shawn nodded. "Yes, he should be here any moment now."

"You'll need to tell your insurance as soon as we're finished working the scene. And you probably should call somebody about fixing the window quickly."

For a moment, Shawn thought whether they even had insurance for the office. But then he remembered Gus talking about closing an insurance contract a few months earlier. And knowing Gus, he had considered the possibility that somebody might break into the office. He trusted that Gus had thought of that kind of thing.

But first he needed to get through the outbreak once Gus saw what had happened here. And Shawn never for one moment doubted that there would be an outbreak.

For a few moments, Shawn watched the flashes of photographs being taken inside the office.

"Can we go in?" He asked Lassiter and Juliet. Lassiter drew breath to answer, but Juliet beat him to it.

"Sure. They should be finished taking pictures by now."  
Before Lassiter could protest, Shawn was already through the front door and in the office. Hendricks and Vaughn, the two officers, were finished taking pictures and were brushing the door- and window-handles for fingerprints right now, but Shawn was convinced they wouldn't find anything. Not in this mess, anyway.

The office looked even worse from the inside than it looked from the outside looking in. Both Shawn's and Gus' desk had been overturned, all the papers on and in the desks strewn all over the place. Shawn's desk chair was broken into pieces, and a dent in the wall beside where it lay suggested just how it had happened.

The flat-screen TV was lying on the floor, broken into pieces and its screen smashed in a number of places.

Every piece of furniture had been overturned or tossed around; and what was breakable had been broken. Picture frames were broken, the floor of the kitchen area was totally covered in shards from all the glasses and mugs that had been broken. The pot of the coffee machine had been smashed against a wall, books were lying littering the floor, their spines broken and pages torn out. The upholstery of the sofas and client chairs had been slashed open, the stuffing ripped out and strewn all over the room before the furniture as such had been knocked over and thrown around.

And after they had thrashed the place, the perps had gotten creative with a can or two of black spray paint.

The insults were unsurprisingly uncreative. Nigger-loving faggot; cock-sucking psychic, nigger-lover – it seemed that whoever had done this had been a big fan of hyphenating things. Not a great speller, but a big fan of hyphens. And an artist, if the depiction of a giant penis underneath the tag that labeled him a cock-sucker was anything to go by.

The theme was generally the same. Excessive use of the word nigger, excessive hints that being friends with said niggers made him gay, disease-ridden and a weakness for society. Not exactly as elaborately put as that, but the swastikas sprayed all over the walls more than made up for the lack of verbal eloquence.

Shawn sighed and looked around the room with a hand buried in his hair. This was going to take ages to clean up.

Upon hearing the sound of a car door slamming outside, Shawn turned and looked through the remains of the window. Gus had his car parked right in front of the door and came hurrying inside. He cast one quick look at Shawn, then his eyes roamed around the broken and tossed office and he simply stared, his mouth slightly open and his forehead creased into a frown. Shawn saw how his friend's eyes narrowed as he read the graffiti on the walls.

"What the hell happened here?"

Shawn shrugged. "I got bored with the interior design of the place."  
"Shawn!"  
Shawn raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Come on dude, what do you think happened here? This is how I found the place when I came here earlier. Somebody broke in last night and tossed the place."

Gus looked around the room again. "Any idea who did this?"

"Well, my guess would be a bunch of racist idiots who normally spend their spare time beating people to death."  
Gus' face looked impassive, but Shawn could see how his jaw was set firmly and how his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Gus was angry.

"We need to call the insurance."

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, we do. And then we need to clean up here."

He sighed and looked around the place. It was going to take them ages to clean up this mess. Hours of time during which they could do something to find the people who had done this. Because if there was one thing Shawn was sure of, then it was that the people who had broken into the officer were the people they were looking for.

It couldn't be a coincidence that their office got broken into and spray-painted with racist messages right at the time when they were investigating a racist crime.

Which meant that they were getting closer.

Shawn had no idea whether it had anything to do with the news broadcast from the previous day, or if their little visit to the fraternity house had been noticed, but somehow those guys knew that Shawn was working the case. And they were worried that he might find them, that's why they were trying to scare him off.

Well, fat chance of that.

Shawn wouldn't stop working the case, no matter how much his office got thrashed. If those guys really thought that this was enough to stop him, they were underestimating him. Seriously underestimating him.

A bit over an hour later, Lassiter, Juliet and the two cops were long gone and Gus was saying goodbye to the insurance agent on the parking lot in front of the office. Shawn had been astonished at how quickly the man had found the time to come to the office, but it turned out that Gus and the guy were old college buddies. After taking another round of pictures of the thrashed office, he left Shawn and Gus with the task of creating a list of things that had been damaged or ruined during the break-in and estimating their value.

And for that, they needed to start cleaning up this mess.

Amongst the few things that hadn't been destroyed was the large roll of garbage bags which Gus had deposited under the sink in the kitchen area. Back when he had bought them, Shawn had actually laughed at Gus for buying the largest garbage bags available, but right now they did come in handy.

But still, this was going to be a lot of work.

Shawn ripped one bag off the roll and shook it open. It might be best to start cleaning up all the glass shards. Taking broom and shovel, he started sweeping up what remained of their kitchen interior.

A few minutes later, Gus came back into the office. "Derek says our insurance should cover the damage. Luckily there weren't any valuables around aside from the TV and the furniture. We only need to make a list, and we need to hand in the receipts for the things that got broken."

Shawn frowned as he emptied another shovel full of glass shards in to the trash bag. If he was honest, he wasn't so sure whether those receipts were still anywhere around. Gus caught his gaze and shook his head.

"I got all that in a folder at home. At least for the TV and most of the furniture. Luckily I took my laptop when I left here. All my client files are on it, I really need to make a backup first thing when I get home. Oh, and somebody is going to drop by to board up the window later on. We need to have another window made, that's probably going to take a few days. And the lock's going to be exchanged later, as well."

Shawn nodded absent-mindedly and continued sweeping up glass shards. He knew that his Dad probably had all the material to board up the window in his garage, but right now he didn't want to call him. Not after his lecture about staying off the case from the previous day. Besides, the lock also needed to be fixed, too. They needed to keep the receipt from that as well, maybe the insurance would also cover those costs.

Though actually Shawn didn't worry that much about it. If Gus said the insurance would cover most of the damage, then he didn't need to waste any more thoughts on it. Maybe there'd even be enough money from the insurance compensation to buy some paint and get those graffiti off the walls. But the state of the office wasn't really what enraged him like that. There hadn't been any real valuables around here except for the TV, and no personal items that could have been damaged. Some picture frames, but those were easy enough to replace.

No, what really enraged Shawn about this was the fact that those racist assholes had been here, right in his office, taking their time tossing the place while the police out there was looking for them. That was what angered him to no end. If he had only been here, if a neighbor or a passer-by had heard the commotion and called the police, they could already be arrested right now.

But nobody had heard anything, and those guys were still out there, thinking they could literally get away with murder.

That was what really pissed Shawn off.

Shawn and Gus silently worked for another hour, cleaning up the biggest mess in the office. It was surprising how quickly they filled the garbage bags, and even more surprising how many breakable things had been in the office in the first place.

He'd probably have to borrow his Dad's truck to get rid off the sofa and the other bulky things, but until then they cleared away everything that fit into the garbage bags.

For the most part, they worked in silence. Shawn wouldn't have minded talking, but it was painfully obvious that Gus was in no mood for talking. Occasionally, Shawn saw him toss more than just a fleeting glance at one of the graffiti on the walls, and he saw his jaw line harden and his hands balling into fists whenever that happened.

Maybe his Dad was right, though Shawn had no idea where that thought came from. It was actually scary that the thought had even made it to the forefront of his mind. But this time it was true. Maybe his Dad was right. Maybe Gus needed to stay out of this case.

Right. Now he only needed to tell Gus that. Shawn was not at all looking forward to breaching the subject with his friend. That was so not going to be fun.

As Shawn carried yet another garbage bag out of the office to put it on the sidewalk, he heard the sound of a truck pulling up into the parking lot. He didn't pay much attention to it, his mind was too busy figuring out how to talk to Gus about the direction this case was going in. Figuring it was probably whoever Gus had called to board up the window and fix the lock, Shawn tossed the garbage bag beside the others on the sidewalk. It landed with an audible clunk of glass shards. It seemed that was all there was left – glass shards. No mater how much stuff they cleaned up, it revealed even more glass shards. There couldn't have possible been that many glass objects in the office in the first place.

Maybe whoever had done this had brought along some additional glass objects.

Yeah, right.

"Shawn!"

Shawn stopped mid-movement and slowly turned around. Please not this. Not now.

But of course things didn't go according to Shawn Spencer's plan. When did they ever?

"Dad. What are you doing here?"

Henry shook his head and stepped away from his truck. His eyes went to the broken window of the office. Shawn knew that he could easily see the graffiti on the walls inside from his position. And judged by the slow raise of his eyebrows, another lecture was well on its way.

This was so not his day.

"What happened here, Shawn?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. Why did everybody have to ask that question? It wasn't as if it was a big riddle or anything. Broken window, graffiti on the walls, that's not how your average party ended.

"What does it look like, Dad? It seems somebody thinks we're getting to close to solving those cases, that's what happened."

Henry's face pulled into a disapproving frown, and inwardly Shawn braced himself for the lecture that was invariably going to come. Henry sighed and shook his head, his eyes on the floor. He kicked one of the glass shards away before he looked up.

"Shawn, I want you off this case. That news broadcast was only yesterday and already they thrashed your office. What's going to happen next?"

Shawn shook his head. "We've been through that, Dad. I can't stop working the case just like that."

"Yes you can, Shawn. Just drop it. Just tell Karen that you can't work on this case anymore."

"I can't, Dad. The police asked for my help, and in one day I already found out more than they did ever since they started working the case."

"Shawn, this is too dangerous. Those people mean business. This time they just hit the office, but the next time it might not be that. The next time, somebody could get hurt."

Shawn drew a deep breath. His father just didn't want to understand. It was like talking to a brick wall.

"If I was a cop, I couldn't chose which cases to work on either. So what's the deal?"

"The deal? The deal is that you are no cop, Shawn. You repeatedly make that painfully clear. Drop the case Shawn."

Shawn shook his head. "No. You can as well stop the discussion right now because you're not going to change my mind. I'm going to work this case."

Henry stared at Shawn for a few long seconds, then he sighed and without another word brushed by Shawn and into the office. Gus was tying yet another garbage bag close as they entered.

Actually, the office looked a lot better now than it had done an hour ago, but it still looked pretty messed up. Shawn and Gus had put the remains of their desks and chairs over towards the sofa and the other bulky ruined things, leaving a huge space of tossed clutter and broken things on the floor right in the middle of the office.

Henry stepped into the room and let his eyes roam around. Shawn noticed how his face darkened as he saw the graffiti on the walls, but after a moment he forced a nonchalant expression on his face and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"You're going to have to get this window boarded up."

"Already taken care of."

Henry raised his eyebrows again. "You could have called. I have enough boards in the garage, I could have helped."

Shawn shook his head. "As I said Dad, it's already taken care of."

Henry nodded. "The insurance? You have insurance, don't you?"

"Yes Mr. Spencer, we have insurance. It's all in the works already."

"Good, good." Henry took a last look at the clutter on the ground and the graffiti on the walls, then he turned towards Gus.

"Can I have a word, Gus?"  
Gus looked a little surprised, but nodded. "Sure."

"Outside?"

The perplexed expression still on his face, Gus nodded again and left the office. Henry followed him outside, leaving Shawn to stand alone in the office. He could still see them through the huge hole where his window had once been, though. Henry was leading Gus over to where his truck was parked before he started saying something. They were standing too far away for Shawn to hear what they were saying, and the angle was all wrong to be reading their lips. It didn't matter, Gus would tell him what this was all about once his father left.

With a sigh, Shawn picked up yet another garbage back and continued to search through the clutter on the floor for something that wasn't broken or torn before he swept up the clutter and put it into the bag. Again, there was no much left to salvage, and the garbage bag was full rather quickly. Tying it close, Shawn straightened up and looked outside the window again.

His father and Gus were still standing beside the truck, but now it was Gus who was talking. Henry was trying to get a word in between, but Gus didn't leave him any chance. He was gesturing sharply as he spoke, and there was a finality to his gestures as he finished speaking. Shawn watched as Henry said another few words, Gus shook his head and Henry finally got back into the truck and drove away. Gus looked after the truck for a few seconds, then he turned around and walked back into the office.

Shawn put the trash bag down beside the front door and picked up another.

Gus came back into the office and wordlessly picked up broom and shovel again. But there was a renewed anger to his movements as he started piling trash into the bag. Shawn knew that reaction only too well, he had it nearly every time he talked to his Dad about something. The new thing was that Gus was reacting this way. So far, his relationship with his father had been polite and distant.

"So, what was that all about?"

Gus threw another shovel full of shards and broken things into the trash bag. "Your father wants me to stop working this case."

Well, that was interesting. Honestly, Shawn didn't like it when his Dad involved himself in his life and tried to tell him what to do. He could feel with Gus on that one. But on the other hand, as far as Gus was concerned, Shawn found himself sharing some of his father's concerns.

Shawn put the broom down on the ground and leaned on the handle.

"I was thinking that maybe he's right about that."

Gus stopped mid-movement and looked up at Shawn.

"What?"

Shawn shrugged uncomfortably. "He told me to drop the case, too. And I told him I won't. But I can't help thinking that maybe…well, you know. That maybe it might be too dangerous if you stay involved."

Gus was shaking his head. "You can't be serious about this."

"I don't know, okay? All I know is that they didn't even mention your name on the news broadcast, but all this here," he gestured towards the graffiti on the walls, "suggests pretty strongly that those assholes know I'm working with you."

Gus shrugged. "So what? A lot of people know I'm working with you. All it takes is five minutes in front of a computer to figure out we're working together."

"Yes, but those racists don't have a reason to come after me."

Gus laughed. "Oh, aside from you trying to get them convicted for murder, you mean."

Shawn shook his head. "That's different Gus. They're not after me for my skin color!"

"Yeah, they're after you because you're a danger to them. Please explain the difference to me because I don't understand. If you keep working this case, you're going to be just as much of a target as I am."

Shawn sighed and leaned the broom against the wall. Running his hands through his hair, he started pacing up and down.

"This is different, Gus."  
"I don't see how."

"Because for those people, you are a walking talking target."

Gus shook his head again. "Shawn, they're racists. I'm a target for them whenever I leave the house."

"But if you're working this case you make yourself even more of a target for them."

Gus just stared at Shawn for a long moment, then he dropped the garbage bag he was holding and took a few steps towards Shawn.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that I'm worried, all right? Of course I know that hose people would beat you up without hesitation if they met you alone on the street at night. But now that we're working this case, it's like practically inviting them to come after us. It's as good as drawing a big target on your back. I don't want to be the one who brings people like that into your life."

Gus laughed out loud at that, but somehow Shawn failed to see the humor in the situation.

"I don't think this is funny, Gus."

Gus shook his head. "No, you're right. All this isn't funny at all." He gestured through the office. "But it's actually kinda funny that you think this is the first time I'm confronted with people hating on me because I'm black."

"What?"

"Shawn, I'm thirty years old. Do you honestly think that in all this time, nobody ever mistreated me because I'm black?"

"If this is about those goons roughing us up on the playground…"

"What?" Gus shook his head and threw his hands into the air in frustration. "You mean when we were eight? Shawn, I hate to break it to you, but that's not what I'm talking about. We were kids. And those were just kids. Stupid kids, admittedly, but they were just teens who listened to the wrong friends and acted out on what they thought. Probably they all straightened out their lives after your father scared the living daylight out of them. I'm not talking about some kids roughing us up on the playground. I'm talking about adults. People who should know better but didn't."

Shawn frantically wracked his brains to figure out what his friend was talking about. But he couldn't. That one instance on the playground had been the only time he had ever witnessed somebody going after Gus because of his skin color. So what other instances could his friend possibly be talking about?

"What do you mean?"

Gus was still shaking his head, but now the expression on his face equaled the one of somebody talking to a particularly stubborn child.

"What I mean is that there have always been people treating me differently because I'm black. Not on a daily basis, but often enough."

"Like who?"

Gus sighed. "Like Miss Bodensky, for example."

"Our guidance counselor in high school?"

"Exactly that Miss Bodensky. Remember when we had to take those career advice meetings with her before we took our SATs? So that she could advise us on which colleges to go to for which studies, and on how to go on about our applications and possible scholarships?"

"Yeah, of course I remember. It was a waste of time, actually."

Gus shrugged. "It certainly was for somebody who never planned on going to college. But do you know what she told me when I came for my appointment? I had it all planned out, what colleges I was going to apply for, and I was really hoping she could give me some good advice on how to make my applications better. And what did she tell me?"

Shawn shrugged. "I don't know. You never mentioned anything about it to me."

"She told me that I shouldn't waste that much time and energy on my applications. Miss Bodensky told me in no uncertain terms that I didn't need to worry because these days, all colleges offered minority scholarships, and that this way, I didn't have to compete with all the white kids applying for college."

To Shawn, Gus' words felt like a blow to the stomach. Why hadn't Gus ever told him something about that? But before he could say anything, Gus continued.

"That's not been the first time something like that happened, and it's not been the last time either. I've had doctors before who asked my boss for a different sales rep on their route, and I know it wasn't about the quality of the job I did. I've applied for an apartment once and the landlord made it painfully clear that he didn't want any black people in the neighborhood. It has happened before Shawn, so don't go around telling me that you've got to protect me from something I've been confronted with my whole life. This is a case like any other, and nothing you or your father say is going to stop me from working it, all right?"

Gus turned around and picked up the garbage bag again, angrily stuffing things into it. Shawn stared at him for a long moment, waiting for a further explanation. But it didn't come. Gus silently continued stuffing things into the garbage bag.

"So what, that's it?"

Slowly, Gus turned around. "What else do you want to hear?"

"I don't know. An explanation, maybe? Dude, we've been best friends ever since we were six years old, and I didn't know anything about this. Why didn't you tell me about those things?"

Gus put the garbage bag down with a shake of his head. "And what would you have done?"

"What?"

"You understood me, Shawn. What would you have done? What if I had told you about all those things, what would that have changed?"

"I…"

"It would have changed nothing, Shawn. That's why I never told you anything like this, because it wouldn't have changed anything."

Shawn shook his head. "But it should have. I mean, I should have known. We could have done something against it."

Gus shook his head again with a smile. "No, we couldn't have. You can't change the way people think, Shawn. It wouldn't have changed anything if you had known about every single instance in my life when people felt the need to remind me about my skin color."

"But you still could have told me. Why didn't you ever tell me?"  
"Because you wouldn't have understood. There, are you happy now? You wouldn't have understood it, Shawn. You still don't understand it. And I'm actually glad that you don't understand it, believe me. And now, could we maybe just focus on getting the office cleaned up? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get to the station and see if they were able to figure something out from the fraternity's membership list."

Gus turned away and continued to clear the office floor. Shawn watched him for a few seconds, but it was obvious that Gus didn't want to keep talking about this right now. His mind still reeling, Shawn picked up the broom again and started sweeping.

But this definitely wasn't going to be the last time they had spoken about this, that he was already sure of. As soon as this case was over and done with, the two of them were going to have a long talk about whether or not there were other things Gus was keeping from him.

But first things first.

First the office. Then the case. And then the long talk with Gus.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	7. Statistically Speaking

This chapter, admittedly, is a little on the dry and theoretical side. I'm sorry for that, but it's the chapter in which all the background research that I did for the story flow into, and in that regard it has its important place in the story. I promise that I will get the next chapter up very soon to make up for that, seeing that the next chapter is where the bad things start happening...but let's not talk about that yet.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Statistically Speaking**

The man was small and scrawny. More on the nerdy and geeky side, actually, what with his glasses and the hair that was parted on the side and combed over the slightly balding patch on top of his head. Yeah, as if that had ever helped. If anything, it drew even more attention to the fact that he was going bald if he combed his hair like that. Shawn would never understand why people didn't see that.

The square glasses were sitting slightly askew on the guy's nose, and his suit was hanging loosely off his thin frame.

Actually, the suit was the only thing that really identified the guy as an FBI agent. Shawn guessed that a harsh gust of wind could blow the man away. Probably, the bureau never intended for him to end up in a firefight, though he was wearing the regulation firearm on his hip. Shawn seriously wondered how the man had managed to get through the basic FBI training at Quantico.

The name didn't help, either. Not that he was in any way to blame for it, but seriously. Special Agent Magnus Littleton? What parents did that kind of thing to their children? Didn't people think about what they were doing to them for the rest of their lives when they named them?

Agent Littleton had had problems right from the start, that much Shawn was sure of.

But somehow, he had managed to work his way up in law enforcement, and now he was the go-to guy in the Bureau for cases concerning organized criminal groups. And in that role, Chief Vick had asked him to brief the officers involved in the most recent murder cases. Shawn and Gus had been invited, too, and were currently sitting on uncomfortable folding chairs in the department's briefing room, waiting while Littleton set up the projector.

Theoretical background was one thing, but Shawn just hoped that the man wasn't planning on showing a slide-show. His brain had the tendency to shut down during that particular kind of presentation.

When all the officers had filed into the room, Chief Vick stepped up in front of the rows of chairs.

"Detectives, officers, thank you all for coming. As you have all been informed, Special Agent Littleton from the FBI is here to brief us on the ideological background behind the three murders we're currently investigating. I'm grateful that the Bureau has agreed to help us on working out the background behind those murders. Special Agent Littleton has been briefed on the case, and I expect your full cooperation with him. If there are any questions you have, don't hesitate to ask them."

Vick nodded at Littleton to begin and sat back down.

Littleton cleared his throat and took a few nervous steps on the spot behind the desk.

"Good afternoon detectives, officers." He took a look around the room at the faces assembled there. Some of the officers were in uniform, the detectives in civilian clothes, but despite all that Shawn had the feeling that he stood out. Even Gus was wearing a suit. He was the only one in a plaid shirt that looked slightly rumpled because he had absolutely no desire to end up behind an ironing board like his father.

Littleton's gaze stopped for a moment as it skidded over Shawn, but then he looked back towards the wider audience and continued.

"As Chief Vick has told you, I have been briefed on the case. Now, I know all about inter-agency rivalry, and I want to assure you that the FBI is currently not planning on taking over this case. I am here to offer my expertise, and unless I find any evidence that puts this case under federal jurisdiction, it's going to remain with the SBPD."

Beside Shawn, Lassiter snorted loudly. Loud enough to be heard through the entire room, but Littleton continued as if he hadn't heard.

"As for my position in the Bureau, I am the head of a division that's focused on gathering all possible information and intelligence about organized crime groups in California. The division is separated into a number of units that are working different kinds of organized crime. My personal specialization is on what you could generally term racist groups and parties here in California."

He turned towards an officer who was standing beside the door.

"Could you turn down the lights, please?"

The officer nodded and hit two of the three light switches. Shawn had to suppress a groan as the projector sprang to life. It seemed that they were going to be treated with the slide-show after all.

"Adam Wagner," Littleton said and the same mug-shot Shawn had seen before was projected to the wall behind Littleton's head.

"Wagner is a well-known agitator who has been on the FBI-watch list for years. We're doing our best to find enough evidence for a renewed arrest warrant against him. The Bureau has been paying close attention to the activities of Wagner and his group, the White Resistance, over the past years. We are still gathering information and evidence, but we are hopeful to be able to make a case against Wagner within the next couple of months.

"However, from studying the case files, I think Wagner's involvement in the murder cases you have to solve is ideological at best. There is no evidence suggesting that Wagner is in the Santa Barbara area, or that he was involved in planning and or executing these murders. Most known members of Wagner's group, the White Resistance, are living in Los Angeles county. There are no known members of the White Resistance in Santa Barbara. Of course the emphasis is on no _known_ members, but from a law enforcement point of view that means we have no usual suspects to go on. Chief Vick told me that over the course of the investigation, all suspects with a prior history in committing racist crimes have been checked and that the investigation has not brought forth any suspects. However, whether or not Wagner and his group are involved directly in these murders, it is of vital importance that you are all aware of how hate groups and organizations work and act."

From the corner of his eyes, Shawn saw how Lassiter shifted around in his chair. The head detective's face was not really readable, but still Shawn thought he detected a note of boredom there, as if he wasn't particularly keen on sitting through the FBI-agent's lecture.

And true enough, Littleton pressed a little button on the remote control of the projector, and a schematic appeared on the wall behind him.

"Hate groups are all structured similarly. And they all work in similar ways. They distribute inaccurate or distorted information. They use fear, hate and intimidation to achieve their aim of going against the groups they target. In racially motivated hate groups, most of those targets are easy enough to define. Blacks and Hispanics are the biggest target groups for racist organizations here in California. All three victims here in Santa Barbara were black. That is one of the reasons why I'm hesitant to suspect a direct involvement of Wagner or the White Resistance.

"The White Resistance is a white supremacist skinhead group. Their target group are not solely black people but everybody who does not fit into their definition of the white supremacist group. It's a very Aryan image of the white superior group the propagate, and they don't merely stand for anti-black racism but are also an antisemitic, anti-Islamic and generally very xenophobe group. From my briefing on the case I know that no similar crimes against people of a different ethnic background happened since the first murder. If the perpetrators were members of the White Resistance, it would be a surprising development that they only target black people."

"So you're saying those murders aren't connected to Wagner in any way."

Littleton blinked against the light of the projector as he tried to make out Shawn's face in the semi-darkness of the room.

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Shawn Spencer, head psychic of the SBPD."

To his left, Gus suppressed a bout of amused laughter, and to Shawn's right, Lassiter groaned.

Littleton's face pulled into a frown and his eyes sought out Chief Vick in the front row.

"Just how many psychics does your department employ?"

"One." Shawn wasn't sure, but he thought he detected a note of amusement in her voice.

Littleton seemed to struggle with that revelation for a moment, then he shrugged and turned back towards Shawn.

"Well Mr. Spencer, the answer to your question is yes and no."

"Oh, of course. I should have known."

Littleton shook his head. "It isn't an easy question to answer. Do I think Wagner or the White Resistance are directly involved in those murders? No, I don't think so. It's not how the White Resistance has worked so far. Hate groups develop according to a schematic of several stages."

He hit the button on his remote again and another schematic appeared on the wall.

"The psychopathology of hate groups can be separated into seven stages. _Grouping_, _self_-_definition_, _disparaging_ _the_ _target_, _taunting_ _the_ _target_, _attacking_ _without_ _weapons_, _attacking_ _with_ _weapons_, _destroying_ _the_ _target_. Only the last two of those stages are actively violent stages. And while stage seven, _destroying_ _the_ _target_, is the ultimate goal of every hate group, the White Resistance as a group has never gone beyond step five. You can't see the group as a bunch of racists meeting in a basement somewhere, planning their next steps. You have to see it as a platform, a virtual place for likeminded people to meet and spread their ideology. They have websites, papers, a CD-label, they even organize youth events for their younger members and the children of older members. All within the rights granted by the First Amendment.

"Within the White Resistance, you have a much smaller group of radical individuals, with Wagner at the top. He is the chief agitator of the group here in California. While the group as a whole serves the purpose of affirming the ideology in the minds of people and attempts to create an ever-growing membership basis, it's this smaller group within the group that propagates the active violence. Especially Wagner since his release from prison a year ago has become more and more outspoken about active violence, or what would be step six and seven in our schematic of hate groups. They're not addressing the general public, or even all the members of the White Resistance.

"With his calls for active steps against what he calls 'the threat to the white race', Wagner specifically addresses those people within the wider framework of the White Resistance who have a potential and willingness for violence. While he certainly wouldn't condemn it, Wagner doesn't call for the average housewife to kill the FedEx delivery man just because he's Hispanic. Wagner is a very intelligent man, he knows how to manipulate people, and he's an eloquent speaker. He knows exactly what rhetoric to use to address the people who listen to him. If you listen to some of his latest, more radical speeches, you will be aware of the term _'Aryan Avenger'_. In his speeches he creates a form of glorification for those who are ready and willing to actively start defending the white race against the Blacks, the Hispanics, the Jews, Muslims and whoever else is on his target list. The Aryan Avengers are going to be the heroes once the Aryan race is finally going to be the dominant race in America.

"What Wagner does is that he creates a heroic appeal. He wants to create the desire to be one of those heroes in those who listen to his broadcasts, because a heroic motive lowers the inhibition threshold.

"To come back to your question, Mr. Spencer. No, I don't think that Wagner is directly involved in the planning and execution of these murders. But yes, I do think it's a possibility that his frequent hate speeches over the past months have a direct connection to this case. The perpetrators don't necessarily have to be official members of the White Resistance, but past experience has told us that in racially motivated crimes, the perpetrators in almost all cases seek contact to likeminded groups at one point. The White Resistance is the biggest and most easily accessible of those groups in California. I think it's a very likely possibility that somebody with a general hate for – in this case – black people got caught up in Wagner's rhetoric and speeches, internalized the idea and desire to become one of the Aryan Avengers and started acting out on it. There are all kinds of hate crimes, but with three brutal murders in such a short time span, it would be negligent not to consider a possible organized background, even if it's only ideological. This isn't a case of a closet racist snapping one day, and neither is it a bar-fight gone sour. From what the evidence suggests, it's a group of at least three individuals who actively seek out black victims in a situation where the victim is alone, who then proceed to beat them. The MO makes it clear that they never intend for those victims to survive. And it's unlikely that they are going to stop. If my analysis is correct, at least one of those perpetrators might be convinced that he or she is on a mission for the greater good. Those people don't just stop.

"Chief Vick and I agree that in order to catch those people before they commit another murder, you need to know what to look for when interrogating possible suspects or when searching a crime scene or a suspect's apartment. I've prepared a couple of lists and schematics which you will need to work through. Since we've already covered the psychopathology of hate groups, I suggest you all go to page 5 of the folder you've been handed. As we can see here…"

Shawn made it a conscious effort to tune out Littleton's voice as he started to drone on about theoretic things and schematics. He didn't need to be told to recognize a swastika as a racist symbol, but thanks a lot for trying. Right now, he had an office covered with them, actually.

Besides, he was still mulling Littleton's words over in his head, trying to figure out what the man had been trying to tell them. It wasn't easy.

While the speech had definitely been interesting, the jury was still out on whether it had been helpful.

The perpetrators might or might not be members of the White Resistance. Since the group didn't have an official membership roster, that information didn't help them anyway.

They were specifically targeting blacks. That was nothing new, but the fact that they had attacked four and killed three black people didn't mean their next victim couldn't be Hispanic.

And the murderers might be convinced that they were doing this for the greater good. Well, they were killing people because of their skin color. As weak a motive as it was in Shawn's eyes, it was an ideology you didn't just drop from one moment to the other. So it should be obvious that they wouldn't stop doing this until they were caught.

And Shawn seriously doubted that any lectures on the schematic development of hate groups was going to help them find four rogue racists who enjoyed killing people at night. But he couldn't just get up and leave the briefing room, so Shawn sat there and let his mind go over everything he knew about the case while in the front, Littleton droned on and on and on about all the useful intelligence the FBI had gathered on racist groups in California.

Beside him, Shawn noticed that Lassiter was hanging on Littleton's every word, but he doubted that the head detective was doing this out of interest. Lassiter was more the hands-on kind of cop, the one who investigated and followed leads, not the one who tackled things from the theoretical side. But Shawn remembered Lassiter's reaction to Littleton's statement that the FBI didn't intend to take over the case.

It seemed that Lassiter wasn't entirely convinced that this was the truth, and in all honesty Shawn wasn't, either. So far, the FBI might not have any evidence that made this crime a federal crime, but he was sure that as soon as they had that evidence, the SBPD would be short one case. Within the blink of an eye.

Shawn had heard enough of his father's enraged rants about federal involvement to know what could happen.

But in the end, Shawn didn't particularly care about who solved the case and who got the credit. As long as those people were found and put behind bars, the rest didn't matter. But he knew that sitting here in this briefing wouldn't get the case solved, and he craved for the end of Littleton's lecture so that he could go on with the investigation.

He still had no idea what had come out of looking through the fraternity's membership roster. Right now, that was their one hot lead, and Shawn was itching to look more closely into it.

But Littleton didn't have any mercy with Shawn's strained patience.

It took another hour until he finally asked the officer seated beside the door to turn on the lights again. As the projector was shut down, Shawn looked around the room. He wasn't in the least surprised to see quite a number of sleepy and bored expressions around him. Most cops were like Lassiter – the kind of people who were good at actively figuring things out but who totally shut down during a theoretical background analysis.

But that was something people like Littleton never really understood, since their working world was the exact opposite of that. All in all, Shawn thought that they had gotten away rather well with just a bit above an hour of lecture.

The officers filed quickly out of the briefing room as soon as Littleton had declared the briefing closed, and Shawn hurried along with them. It was like being back in school – you were only really safe once you were out of the classroom.

Outside, Shawn caught Gus' eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh.

"I guess the FBI doesn't really know the definition of comprehensive and short."

Gus nodded while releasing a long and slow breath. "I have never hoped for somebody to call me so hard in my life. I'd have even taken a call from Tom right now."

"Speaking of which, and I know that you actually don't want to talk about it, what happened about Tom? One moment you stormed out of the office all pissed because he was reviewing your productivity statistics, and later that day you were all sunshine and daisies again."

A self-satisfied grin started to spread on Gus' face. "Oh, it turned out to be a good day after all."

"Does that mean Tom is off your case?"

Gus shook his head. "Probably not. But that afternoon, Tom got a call from a doctor on another sales rep's route. Dr. Mueller, one of the most proficient clients. He wasn't content with his sales rep, and he's friends with a doctor on my route who recommended me. Dr. Mueller told Tom in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be on my route or he'd change to another pharmaceutical company. Tom's face when he told me about that was priceless. And while Tom was busy talking to Dr. Mueller on the phone, I used a little off time to have a look at the productivity statistics myself. Despite working a second job, I'm still the second most proficient sales rep on the Santa Barbara city routes. So screw Tom if he's trying to find something there. He won't."

Shawn couldn't help but smile at those words. He had been a little worried about this whole grandmother disaster denting Gus' career, but he should have known better. Gus was one of the most organized people he knew. If anybody was able to handle two jobs, it was him.

"That's good to hear."

"Don't think for one moment that I've forgotten about the whole grandmother-lie you've constructed. You are going to pay for that one, just so you know."

"Pay how?"

Gus shrugged. "I'll think of something. And I'm sure I'll come up with something when you least expect it. You just wait."

Shawn shook his head. It was probably better not to ask.

Together the two went over towards Lassiter's desk. The head detective was talking on the phone, but as they got closer he ended the call and hung up.

"O'Hara!"

Juliet, who had been searching through a stack of files on her desk, stopped and turned towards him.

"Yes?"

"Do you have the forensics report on the Sinclair crime scene?"

"One moment!"

Juliet continued searching through the files with renewed hurry. Finally, she found what she was looking for and triumphantly pulled a thin folder out of the stack on her desk. She reached Lassiter at the same time that Shawn and Gus did.

Lassiter took the file from Juliet's hand without comment and opened it.

"Lassie! Jules! Please tell me that there's something new about the case."

Lassiter looked up from his file with an eye roll.

"Unfortunately, we've been held up by investigating a case of breaking and entering this morning. That kind of got in between."

"I'm awfully sorry detective. But please take that matter up with my father, he was the one who taught me that I'm supposed to call the police in case a crime occurs."

Lassiter tossed the file onto his desk and leaned back in his chair to be able to glare up at Shawn.

"Don't try and turn this into a verbal sparring match, Spencer. I'm really not in the mood today, and I'd be really tempted to shoot you."

"Didn't the Chief tell you to keep Gus and me in the loop?"

Lassiter picked up the forensic report again and waved a hand at Juliet absent-mindedly. "O'Hara can do that. I have work to do."  
With that, the conversation seemed to be over for him. Juliet regarded her partner with an acid glare after that abrupt dismissal, but if that glare penetrated Lassiter's armor of feigned disinterest, he didn't let it show. With a sigh, Juliet turned around and led Shawn and Gus over towards her desk.

"What's his problem?" Shawn asked once they were safely out of earshot.

Juliet sank down in her chair with a shake of her head. "His mood is getting worse by the day. And when the Chief brought in that FBI agent, he nearly snapped."

"Is he worried the Feds are going to take the case away?"

Juliet nodded. "Yes. I mean, right now nothing has shown up that would make this a federal case, but you never know. And the Feds are quick at taking over cases, especially if they're high profile cases. Carlton doesn't particularly like the FBI on a good day, hence his mood right now is unearthly."

Gus pulled up a chair, and Shawn perched himself on the edge of Juliet's desk.

"So, is there anything new we should know about?"

Juliet shrugged. "Not much. The forensic report from the Sinclair crime scene finally came through. I guess you heard that just now. There's nothing new in there. A lot of the things we collected at the basketball court seems to be your average everyday trash that's not connected to the case. We have boot prints of three, possibly four different individuals on the immediate crime scene."

"Four," Shawn interrupted, remembering Walter Pritchett's words from the previous day. The man had told him he had been attacked by four people, there was no reason to assume that it had been any less in the more recent murders.

Juliet raised both eyebrows. "How do you know?"

Belatedly, Shawn raised a hand and brought the fingers up to his temple. "I don't know. I just saw the number four flash in front of my eyes. I'm pretty sure it's been four people."

Juliet cocked her head to the side. "Four then. The boot prints aren't defined enough to establish a precise number. If there's four people, then two of them have a very similar shoe size. Size ten."

"Which is a pretty common size."

Juliet nodded. "It is. The other prints are size twelve, those are from the scene beside the body, and one of the prints found on the victim's shirt was a size eight. But we didn't get any distinguished profiles that could prove a suspect was on the scene. Else there were black cotton fibers on the victim's shirt. We've found similar fibers on the previous victims, but it's a very generic fiber. No way to trace it back."

The black ski masks Pritchett had described. But even if Shawn told Juliet about them now, they wouldn't be able to trace them back, either. Thos masks were sold in shops all over the city.

"Some skin cells under the victim's fingernails. It seems he managed to struggle a little. Forensics got the DNA of one person from those cells, but no hits on any databases. Whoever did this isn't in the system yet. Nothing else of interest. A number of cigarette butts all over the basketball court, they're still going through DNA analysis at the lab, but judged from where they were found it's unlikely that they come from our killers."

Shawn nodded. Just like the other crime scenes. There was forensic evidence, but nothing that was conclusive. Nothing at all that was a lead in this case.

"What about the fraternity."

Juliet nodded and pulled another list out of the stack on her desk.

"The heads of the fraternity weren't exactly keen to hand it over. It took a little pressure from the Dean before they realized that cooperation would be the best step in their situation. But here's the list, I made you a copy."

Shawn took the paper and scanned it. There were maybe fifty names on it all in all, sorted alphabetically.

"Anything that stood out?"

Juliet shook her head. "No. We ran the names through the system. None of the fraternity members has any priors that would be of interest. No racially motivated crimes in the past of any of these members."

Shawn nodded. That would have been too easy. Besides, those were college students. If any of them had a police file somewhere, it were probably traffic violations or other smaller crimes. It would have been hard to get accepted in college with a prior conviction in a serious offence. Not to mention that from what Shawn knew, fraternities were also known to be picky about their members.

But the Greek letters in the letter head of the list proved that Shawn was right. Pi Sigma Delta. It wasn't an exact match to the drawing Walter Pritchett had made, but similar enough to know that there could be no doubt. One of the attackers had been wearing the fraternity ring.

"Did you check about those rings? Does every member get one of those, or do you have to be in some sort of secret club within the club to get them?"

Again, Juliet shook her head. "Every member gets a fraternity ring and a fraternity pin upon their initiation. Initiation takes place after a six month probation period. The members who are on probation right now are the six on the bottom of the list. They're the only ones in the fraternity who don't have the ring yet. And of course, the members keep their rings after they graduate college. So theoretically, it could be somebody who once was a member of the fraternity."

Shawn frowned and let those thoughts run through his head. That was of course a possibility, though somehow he doubted it. Pritchett had said that his attackers sounded young. Now, the statement of somebody who had been afraid for his life at the time might not be the most reliable statement there was, but Shawn had a gut feeling that the fraternity would be the key. Not any previous members.

"I can keep this?"

Juliet nodded, and Shawn got up from his perch on the edge of the desk. "Thanks Jules. We'll let you know if we have anything. Right now, we have an office to paint."

"The report on the break-in isn't there yet, but there were no fingerprint matches on either the door- or window handles. I'll let you know if something else on that comes in."

Shawn nodded. "Thanks."  
"Is the insurance going to cover the damage?"

"Most of it, yes. Don't worry Jules, I was thinking about redecorating the office, anyway. All that green, yellow and brown, it was so 1975."

Juliet smiled. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Shawn raised an eyebrow suggestively. "While I'd be lying if I said that I wouldn't want to see you all streaked with paint, I guess you have your work cut out for you here. Besides, Gus does a pretty mean Michelangelo impersonation if you only give him a hat folded out of a newspaper."

"Shawn!"

Juliet chuckled, and Shawn followed Gus out of the police station.

"So what now?" Gus asked as they reached the car. "The home depot? We need to buy paint."

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, we can do that on the way."

"On the way to where?"

Shawn pulled out the list again. "The fraternity house. At least I think that's where we're going. Let's find a coffee shop or someplace else with internet access, and then we try to find out about those people. Maybe we see something the police have missed."

Gus rolled his eyes, but he unlocked the car and got in behind the wheel.

Two hours, three coffees and a sandwich for each of them later, Shawn and Gus gave up. They had gone through the entire list of names, had put them through all search engines imaginable, but hadn't found anything. Some of the names had linked them back to the fraternity or college homepage, some had linked back to projects or honor-certificates the members had been involved in during their time at high-school. One of the members had a blog in which he enthusiastically shared his experiences in studying the ancient philosophers. A few of them had MySpace pages, but other than a criminal taste in music there was nothing to find.

Nothing with a racist or violent background, at least.

They had even gone as far as searching through the forums on some of the websites that were connected to the White Resistance, hoping to find a username that would lead them back to one of the names on the list. But no such luck. The people posting on those websites all used usernames that left no clues as to their real names. At least Shawn thought that names like _HitlerWasRight_ or _WhitePride_ were not last names that were common in the United States.

They didn't find anything that tied anybody directly to those murders.

But Shawn found something else, a small note under the label "Events/Activities" on the college homepage.

"Wait Gus, what's that?"

Shawn pointed to the screen and Gus frowned as he looked at the link.

"It's a keg party. Don't tell me you don't know what a keg party is."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Of course I do. Come on Gus, I bet I've been to more keg parties than you have, and I didn't even go to college. No, I meant where it is."

Gus clicked on the link and was transported back to the website of one of the fraternities on campus.

"Pi Sigma Delta fraternity house."

Shawn nodded as he read. "The Pi Sigma Delta celebrate the beginning of the new semester with an open keg party. Non-members welcome, information about initiation available."

Gus shrugged. "It happens. Fraternities throw parties all the time. It's the beginning of the semester, a lot of first-years are running around on campus. The perfect way to find out who's interested in joining up and who might have the potential for membership."

"And a way to smooch free beers."

"That, too." Gus looked up at Shawn, and his expression darkened from one moment to the next.

"Oh no, Shawn. No way. We are not going to go to that party."

"Why not? It's the perfect way to get a look inside that house, and to get a look at the members."

"It's a perfect way to let them know that you're still working the case, you mean. Shawn, they all know what you look like, how do you think this is going to work?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Come on Gus, give me some credit. I didn't plan on showing up there at half past seven, pineapple in hand. It's a keg party, Gus. My guess is, most of them will be drunk as skunks at around ten. If we show up after that, nobody is going to notice if we take a quick look around."

Gus shook his head. "I don't like it, Shawn."

"Come on Gus, what could possibly happen? Worst case scenario, somebody recognizes us and they throw us out."

Gus simply sighed. "That's really the worst case scenario you can think of? Dude, you got problems."

"So, are we going to go to the party?"

Gus sighed. "At the first sign of something being off, we're out of there."

Shawn nodded enthusiastically. "Of course. Dude, how sweet is that? We're finally getting to go to a college party together."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Let's just go and buy that paint in the meantime."

* * *

Thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	8. I like my own fraternity much better

Here you go with the next chapter. This hopefully is the reward for sticking through the dry theory of the last chapter. At least I seriously hope so. Things really start moving now, so buckle in for the ride.

Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 7 – I like my own fraternity much better**

At half past ten that evening, Gus once more parked his car on one of the campus parking lots. The campus looked the same as it had done the previous evening. Most of the study buildings were dark, but there were lights on in most of the dormitories, and the main library in the distance was also lit up like Harrods at Christmastime.

There were a few students walking around campus as Shawn and Gus made their way towards the Pi Sigma Delta fraternity house. Even from the distance, they could already hear the loud bass of the music echoing towards them.

The fraternity house was lit brightly, and groups of students were lingering in front of the building, drinking, talking and smoking. From the few pieces of conversation that carried over towards them, a lot of the people at the party were already in various stages of intoxication.

Shawn looked at Gus from the corner of his eye. It had taken quite some convincing to make Gus lose the suit for the evening, arguing that it was definitely not the right dress code for a keg party. So now Gus was dressed in jeans and a casual shirt. Well, as casual as an ironed shirt could look like. And ironed meant also that it looked much unlike Shawn's choice of shirt tonight. It seemed that his father was not the only man in his life who had an affinity for spending time alone with his ironing board.

Nobody paid any real attention to them as they climbed the front stairs of the fraternity house. They had to squeeze through the group of students standing there, but they were all so engrossed in their conversations that they didn't pay any mind to Shawn or Gus.

Even the fraternity brother who was obviously supposed to be watching the door, identified easily enough by the pin with the Greek insignia on the collar of his shirt, didn't throw more than a casual glance at them. Shawn didn't begrudge him for that, the cleavage of the young woman he was talking to was definitely more interesting than watching out who was coming and going through the door. He merely held out a flyer to Shawn, more of an automatic reaction, and didn't say a word as they passed. Shawn took the flyer and looked at it.

It was a flyer advertising membership in the fraternity and how to apply for it. Nothing that was really of any interest once Shawn skimmed through its contents, but he'd have a closer look at it later. Right now, they needed to take a look at this place.

Putting the flyer in his pocket, Shawn looked around.

The fraternity house looked just as he had expected it to. Hallway leading to the large room that served as a living room and study for the members. Open kitchen area. A lot of people were standing around there, so Shawn guessed that was where the kegs were positioned. Stairs leading upstairs to the private bedrooms of the members who lived at the fraternity house. The ground floor was packed with people standing around in groups, talking, laughing and dancing. Most of them were holding plastic cups half-filled with beer, half-filled with foam.

Inwardly, Shawn shook his head. Somebody who threw a keg party really should know how to tap a beer without so much foam. Come on, it wasn't that difficult, and a member of a fraternity should really know better.

The stairs to the upper floor went at an angle, and people were milling on the first half of the stairs, some sitting down, others leaning against the banister. But nobody was seen on the gallery of the upper floor. Shawn guessed that the fraternity brother standing with his arms crossed on the first landing of the stairs had something to do with it.

Now this was going to become a problem.

Shawn was sure that if there was anything of interest to be found here, it was going to be on the upper floor in one of the bedrooms. Down here it was far too crowded to even make out the single fraternity brothers amongst the masses of people. Besides, it would have to be a pretty stupid racist who left evidence of his crime lying around in a room that was used by twenty people or more.

When somebody pushed into them from behind, Shawn noticed that he and Gus were still standing halfway in the door. He quickly put a hand on his friend's arm and pulled him further into the room.

"We need to get up there."

Shawn would have preferred to whisper those words, but the loud booming of the music and the sound of a hundred people talking at once made that an impossible feat. So instead he practically yelled those words into Gus' ear, but somebody standing more than a foot away probably wouldn't have been able to understand.

Gus looked up the stairs, stared at the fraternity brother guarding them for a moment, then he looked back at Shawn.

"That's going to be a problem. That guy doesn't look as if he's going to let us through. And he looks pretty sober to me."

Shawn nodded and looked up at the stairs with a sigh. That really was going to become a problem. He had counted on all the fraternity brothers to be at least a little drunk, but it seemed they placed a high value on the privacy of their members. The guard on the stairs was probably one of the members on probation who had to stay sober for the night.

Just as Shawn watched, a couple made their way up the stairs towards the guard. The girl was a brunette young woman who was showing far too much cleavage and legs, and who – judged by the way she was swaying – had been standing too close to one of the kegs for a while. She was giggling and laughing as a young man led her up the stairs. Shawn took a closer look at the guy. He, too, was wearing one of the pins on his lapel that identified him as one of the fraternity brothers. And he, too, seemed rather drunk.

The two fraternity brothers exchanged some sort of secret handshake as they passed each other on the landing. The one guarding the stairs let the couple pass without so much as saying a word.

Shawn turned back towards Gus.

"It seems we have to score with one of the frat brothers if we want to go up there."

Gus stared at Shawn for a moment, as if he was contemplating whether or not his friend was serious about this, then he turned away with a shake of his head.

"All we need is a distraction."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Think about it, Shawn. That guy just let one of his brothers and a girl up there without blinking. This is a party that has been going on for over three hours now. How many others do you think are up there right now, doing the horizontal polka?"

Shawn grimaced. "The _horizontal polka_? What happened? Did we step through a time-portal and end up in 1989?"

Gus rolled his eyes and turned around wordlessly. They made their way over towards the base of the stairs. Standing slightly in the entry of the kitchen, they managed to stay out of sight of the fraternity brother on the stairs.

"And what now?"

Shawn stared at the floor as his thoughts raced. That was indeed a very good question. Somehow, they needed to get up the stairs. And that meant that somehow, they needed to distract that fraternity brother who was guarding the stairs.

But there was no immediate opening, so Shawn busied himself studying the people around the room, trying to make out the fraternity brothers.

It was easy enough to identify who belonged to the fraternity once he saw the members. They all seemed to wear the pins with the Greek letters on their shirts. Most of them were standing around talking to people. For this being an opportunity for the younger students to gather information about membership and application, the fraternity brothers seemed more interested in chatting up girls.

But then again it was a party. Maybe the official information for new members part had been dealt with early on. Or maybe all that stuff about this being an introductory event for first years was just a pretense to hold a keg party.

Next to Shawn, Gus was shifting from one foot to the other impatiently. Shawn could sympathize. Ten years ago, he might have found this kind of party enthralling. Right now, especially from a sober perspective, it was just too loud, too crowded and too stuffy. Besides, he and Gus were the only people standing around silently, without a drink in their hands. It wasn't going to take long before somebody noticed that they looked out of place.

But then their luck finally changed.

Shawn turned as he heard the sound of raised voices behind him. An argument that stood out even over the loud background noise and chatter of the party was worth noticing.

A few feet away from them, right at the foot of the stairs, two guys were locked in an argument. Neither of them was wearing anything that defined him as a fraternity brother. The slightly taller of the two was dripping wet in the face, dark spots marring his shirt, and his face was red with anger. His opponent was still holding the empty plastic cup in his hand which had contained the beer that was now drenching the other guy's face and shirt.

Just as Shawn turned to look, the one who had been bathed in beer gave an angry roar and threw himself at the other. The people around them automatically took a step back as the two fighters ended up on the floor.

"Fight!" Somebody yelled over the booming music, and immediately a cacophony of sounds broke out all over the room. People started chanting "Fight! Fight!", somebody else was yelling for them to stop, and a few brave souls dove towards the two guys locked in a struggle of fists on the floor and tried to pull them apart.

From the corner of his eyes, Shawn saw the fraternity brother on the stairs look around helplessly, but seeing that none of his brothers were as close to the fight as he was, he finally came to a decision and left his post on the stairs to go down and try to break up the fight.

Shawn recognized an opening when he saw one.

Without looking, he reached for Gus' arm and dragged him over towards the stairs. He ducked low and tried to keep out of sight of the people around them, but he needn't have bothered. Everybody only had eyes for the fight of the two drunk guys, and nobody noticed as Shawn and Gus brushed past them and hurried up the stairs.

Once they had reached the upper gallery that led off to the bedrooms, Gus shook off Shawn's grip on his wrist roughly. Shawn let go and took a look around.

"I told you all we needed was a distraction."

"Whatever Shawn. That fight won't keep them occupied for too long, and as soon as it's broken up that guy will be guarding the stairs again. So whatever it is you're intending to do, do it fast."

"Just keep adding pressure, would you? I can deal with it. I work best under pressure."

"You're going to deal with a lot more than just a little pressure if somebody finds us up here, Shawn."

Shawn rolled his eyes and took a quick look around. There were several rooms branching off the gallery, and in the back there was a corridor leading to even more rooms. And actually, he had no idea where to start.

Quickly, he hurried over towards the nearest door and pressed his ear against the wood.

"Shawn, what are you doing?" Gus hissed from behind him.

Shawn waved him off. "Shhhh, I'm trying to listen!"

"Listen to what? So that's your master plan? Are you going to listen at all doors up here? Well, I wish you a lot of fun, but I'm out of here!"

Gus turned to leave, but again Shawn grabbed his wrist and held him back.

"Would you wait for just a few moments?"  
"Wait for what? For them to find us?"

Shawn shook his head and dragged Gus further along to the next door. Again, he pressed his ear against the wood and strained to hear. After a moment, he put his hand out and turned the knob.

"What was wrong with the first door? Why didn't you try that one?"

Shawn slowly opened the door a few inches and peered inside. When he found the room empty, he inched the door open wider and slipped inside.

"Because it sounded as if they were dancing the _polka_ in there, Gus. The _horizontal_ version, if you get my drift. Either that or they were sacrificing a cat in some satanic ritual. Whatever it was, I'm fairly sure that we didn't want to see it."

He hit the light switch and took a look around the room.

"Dude, this is what the bedroom of somebody who's in a fraternity look like?"

Gus shrugged. "I guess."

"I'd have expected more…glamour. More fraternity-ish things. This here looks like the place where a college student lives."

"Shawn, this is a place where a college student lives."

"Yeah, but it's boring." Shawn let his eyes roam over the desk in the corner, the bookshelf beside it, the bed that was standing against a wall. The room was meticulously tidy, the bed was made, and nothing at all looked out of place. The books were standing in line of the shelf, the surface of the desk was free of any clutter, and the only real personal things that were visible were two posters on the wall. Green Day and Pamela Anderson. Shawn contemplated that choice for a moment, but found nothing that spoke against it. There were worse choices of posters than that.

Quickly, Shawn pulled open the wardrobe and the drawer of the bedside table, but the only things in there were the things you'd expect to find. Clothes and shoes in the wardrobe, all kinds of personal clutter and a pack of condoms in the drawer. All the kind of things you'd expect from a college student at the height of hormonal rage.

Shawn shook his head and turned back towards the door. "There's nothing here."

Gus crossed his arms in front of his chest. "And what is your plan? Do you want to go snooping into all bedrooms until you find something?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"What about leaving? Shawn, this isn't funny. We'll be in real trouble if anybody finds us here."

Shawn shook his head again. "This is our only chance to maybe find something. One of Pritchett's attackers was wearing the fraternity ring, so there's a chance that he's living here."

"Yes. And there's also the chance that he's not. Maybe he's living off campus. Maybe he's living in a different dormitory. And maybe he's no longer a college student at all. Shawn, we don't have time for this."

Shawn slowly opened the door again and peered out into the corridor. There was nobody outside, and quickly the two friends left the bedroom.

"Shawn!" Gus hissed at him. "Let's leave."

Shawn strained his ears. The sounds coming from downstairs suggested that the fight hadn't been broken up completely yet, but he also knew that Gus was right. Once the fight was over, the fraternity brother would be guarding the stairs again. And once he did, they'd have serious problems getting down again.

But for as long as he still had the chance, he needed to look around. Despite Gus' protests, Shawn hurried over towards the nearest door. But just as he stretched out his hand for the doorknob, the door opened.

Shawn actually took a small jump backwards that had him bumping into Gus when the door to the bedroom opened and two girls came out. They were both in their early twenties, both dressed up for party in tight skirts and revealing tops, and judged by the fresh looking layers of lip-gloss and eye-shadow they had used the bedroom to freshen up their make-up. They were both a little tipsy, swaying slightly as they came out of the bedroom.

Both girls were giggling about some sort of private joke, but stopped abruptly when they saw Shawn and Gus standing in front of them.

"Who are you?" The girl to the left, a perky brunette with a bad perm, asked. Though both girls seemed drunk and the girl's speech was slurred, Shawn didn't miss how they were watching them suspiciously. Definitely not drunk enough to forget were they were and who was supposed to be here.

"Are you supposed to be up here?"

Shawn noticed how Gus tensed beside him, but he forced a smile to his face and pulled his wallet out of his jeans.

"How else would I have passed the fraternity brother guarding the stairs, my ladies?"

The brunette with the bad perm giggled, and though the blonde with too much jewelry and the fake long fingernails laughed as well, she was still watching Shawn with slight suspicion. Shawn wouldn't have thought that somebody who took great care to cover her inch-long fingernails with psychedelic red and orange patterns could be this attentive to details, especially when drunk. He quickly flipped open his wallet, waved it in front of the girls' faces for the tenth of a second, then snapped it shut again.

"My name is Jebbediah Longstocking, CBS."

"The TV-station?"

"Campus Balcony Security." Shawn pointed towards Gus. "This is my partner Sigmund McFreud. We're here to ensure balcony safety in the fraternity house during this event. We always do that when alcoholic beverage on a hop and malt basis is involved."

"Come again?" Bad perm asked.

"Beer."

"Ah." She nodded knowingly as if that explained everything.

"Tell me ladies, is there a balcony in the room you just came from?"

Bad perm looked at she-who-wore-too-much-jewelry, then shook her head with a snort.

"No."  
"Good." Shawn nodded as if that explained it all. "Write that down, Siggi. No balcony. That's one of our mottos. _No balcony is the safest balcony_. Now, if you ladies would excuse us, we have an appointment to inspect the front balcony of the house."

Bad perm snorted with suppressed laughter and pointed down the corridor. "Last door to the right, balcony goes off from the study room. You can't miss it."  
Too-much-jewelry pushed her elbow into bad perm's side. "Tracy, do you think they should be here?"

Tracy with the bad perm laughed. "Of course, Sue. If they have something to inspect. Come on, don't be a spoilsport. Dylan's waiting for you downstairs, if they managed to get up here I'm sure it's all right."

"Yeah, it's all right, Sue." Shawn flashed his most charming smile. "I even know the secret handshake."

Sue rolled her eyes, but then Tracy whispered something into her ear and the two girls bent over chortling with laughter. Shawn didn't know what was so funny, but after a moment Sue grabbed for Tracy's hand and pulled the other girl down the corridor and towards the stairs. Tracy flashed them a last drunk smile before she and her friend vanished down the stairs and out of sight.

Beside him, Gus sighed.

"Balcony inspectors? Really Shawn?"

Shawn turned towards him with a shrug. "They were drunk. By the time they realize that there's something off about a balcony inspector, they'll be battling their hangovers."

"That was entirely too close. I told you, we're out of here at the first sign of something being off. This here is much more than something being off. Far beyond it. We're out of here. We're lucky enough if we get out of here without being noticed."

Shawn didn't want to leave already. He wanted to go and check out some more rooms.

"Dude, we've made it this far, this is our chance. We'll figure something out if we meet somebody else, but we won't get another shot at having a look around here."

Gus was shaking his head firmly, and Shawn could have yelled in frustration. His friend should really know by now that he had the talent to talk himself out of nearly every situation. The lack of trust was disappointing.

"Shawn, we're leaving. Now!"

Shawn sighed, but instead of turning towards the stairs like Gus wanted him to, he took a few steps farther down the corridor.

"Shawn!"

"Dude, just one more room!"

"No, we're leaving. I'm leaving!"

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

Shawn and Gus spun around at the new voice. Three men were coming towards them from the other end of the corridor, from the room Tracy had identified as the study room. All three were wearing the fraternity pins on the collars of their shirts, and they all looked too sober to buy the story of Shawn and Gus being balcony inspectors.

"Hey you! I asked you a question! What are you doing here? Who let you up the stairs?"

The three fraternity brothers were quickly coming towards them now, and Shawn did the only thing he could think of.

He spun around with a goofy grin on his face, over-spinning the turn on purpose and staggering towards Gus. His friend frowned at him as Shawn bumped into him and slapped a hand on his shoulder.

"I tol' ya," he slurred out, staggering to and fro on unsteady feet. "There's no keg up here. Gotta stand in line down there with aaaaaaall the others."

The three frat brothers were just a few feet away from them now.

"Who let you up here?" The one in the middle, a guy with the build of a quarterback, asked harshly.

"We're up?" Shawn looked around as if he was only now noticing. "Really? I thought we were down." He forced himself to laugh as drunkenly as he could. "We're up when we should be down. Dude, we're up instead of down. We're upside down!"

Finally, Gus seemed to get the drift and started chortling and laughing at Shawn's words. He started leaning against Shawn in a fake drunken swagger.

"No keg?" Gus asked.

Shawn shook his head. "No keg, dude."  
"No keg? Really?"

"Nope. No keg. Nokegnokegnokeg. 's a shame."

"All right." The quarterback put a hand on Shawn's shoulder and non-too gently shoved him into the direction of the stairs. "You two have no business being here. Get down before I throw you out! Move it!"

Shawn raised his hands. "Okay, okay. Relax. We were jusht looking for da keg."

"The party is downstairs, and if I hear just one more word from you, it will continue without you."

The guy who was built like a footballer obviously didn't think the whole situation was funny, much unlike is two mates who were grinning widely as Shawn and Gus were led towards the stairs.

"Come on Dave, they only got lost."

"They shouldn't be up here. Nobody should be up here, that's why Frank is supposed to guard the stairs."

Once they reached the stairs, Shawn and Gus hurried down as quickly as their fake drunken swagger would allow them. Immediately, the loud music of the party and the chatter of its occupants swallowed them, but from the corner of his eyes Shawn clearly saw how Dave grabbed Frank, the fraternity brother who was guarding the stairs again, but the shoulder and started yelling things at him. He was pointing at Shawn and Gus, obviously asking for an explanation as to how they had managed to get upstairs.

Shawn decided it might be best not to wait around while Frank explained about the fight he had broken up and how he had ended up leaving his post on the stairs for it.

"Come on dude, let's leave."

Gus nodded and together the two of them hurried through the masses of partying people towards the front door. On his way, Shawn saw Sue again, the girl from upstairs with the unbelievable amount of jewelry. She was standing there with a guy, chatting animatedly, her friend Tracy standing beside them talking to another girl.

Then they were outside again, finally breathing fresh air after being inside that beer-heavy atmosphere in the fraternity house for too long. Shawn drew a deep breath of the cool night air. But he needed to keep up, Gus was already hurrying towards the car.

Shawn quickly sprinted to catch up. "Dude, wait up."

"I'm going to the car right now, Shawn. If you want to come, you'd better keep up. I won't pose as a balcony inspector anymore, and I won't pretend that I'm drunk either."

Shawn rolled his eyes, but he fell into step beside his friend. "Gus, it was our only chance at taking a look around at the fraternity house."

"Oh yes? And what did we find? The bedroom of a frat brother who likes Green Day and who thinks Pamela Anderson is sexy. That's going to help us solve the case, of course."

"It wasn't my fault that those guys were up there. With a little more time, we might have found something."

Gus shook his head angrily. "Well, we didn't have more time. So all this little trip has achieved is that we met three very sober fraternity brothers. If there was ever any doubt as to whether or not you're still working the case, you've cleared those up now."

They had reached the car now, and Gus unlocked it and got in. Shawn sank down in the passenger seat and as Gus pulled out of the parking lot he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the head rest.

He didn't like to admit it, but Gus was right. They hadn't learned anything new tonight. He had seen some of the fraternity members in their natural habitat, but that was about it. They simply hadn't had had enough time to take a thorough look around the fraternity house. If Walter Pritchett had been right and one of his attackers had really worn the fraternity ring, they weren't one step closer to finding him.

Come tomorrow, he needed to go through the files again. Maybe there was something he had missed from the crime scenes. Anything to get them on the track of those people before they committed another murder.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Gus had rounds to do.

Shawn knew better than to comment on his friend's commitment to his little side adventure called his _first job_, especially after he had gotten rather unscathed out of the whole Tom-disaster. And since they hadn't found the time to do it the previous day, Shawn borrowed his father's truck and spent his morning over at the home depot to pick out the new paint for the office.

It had been a while since Shawn had last done any renovation works, but he had been through the Henry Spencer school of DIY. Give him paint, brushes and enough tape and he'd have the office done in no time. He might be utterly unable to build a doghouse, but painting a room was a piece of cake. So all that was left to do was pick a color.

Something fresh. Inviting. Comforting for the clients yet fashionable and not too boring and old-fashioned.

Not the same greenish and brown tones that had decorated the office before.

Red? Not really the look for a serious office.

Lavender? Too…questionable.

Brown? No. Too much like the wood paneling in his father's house.

For a few minutes Shawn considered the same bright green tone that the Psych logo on their new window would be. The he pictured Gus' reaction.

And reconsidered.

In the end, he settled for a yellow tone that wasn't too bright. He took great care to chose paint with good covering abilities. The last thing he wanted was for the swastikas to shine through once they were done.

His cart laden with paint, foil, brushes, tape and other useful utensils, Shawn checked out and loaded the stuff into the back of his father's truck. He'd drop it all off at the office, then return the truck to his Dad, mooch lunch and exchange the truck for his bike before he returned to the office and looked into the case files again.

He had called Jules before he had set out to the home depot, but there was nothing new to report on her end.

Which meant that it was all down to Shawn and whether or not he'd find something in the case files that would provide a new lead. But before he got lost in the forensics reports and crime scene pictures, he'd see that he got everything done that needed to be done to make the office look presentable again.

It was just about lunchtime when he finally drove his father's truck back into the driveway. As always when he borrowed the truck, he was glad to get rid of it again. Driving the truck felt like driving a tank or a battleship. It was good vehicle to transport things, but given the choice Shawn would always chose his bike. Driving the truck couldn't even begin to compare to the freedom he felt whenever he was driving his Norton.

His father was in the kitchen when Shawn came in through the back door.

"Thanks for letting me take the truck, Dad. Here are the keys."

Shawn put the keys down on the counter and inconspicuously tried to look into the pots of the stove, trying to figure out their contents.

"Snapper, potatoes, salad." Henry supplied as he caught Shawn's movement. "You're welcome to stay for lunch."

Shawn pulled out plates and cutlery and set the table while his father brought over the food.

"Don't you think for one moment that I consider the timing of you returning the keys a coincidence."

Shawn rolled his eyes as he loaded potatoes onto his plate. "If you knew I was coming for lunch, you could have cooked something more substantial than fish."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Nobody forces you to eat it, you know?"

Shawn shook his head and started shoveling lunch into his mouth. Truth was, his father's cooking was in any case more substantial than the takeout he'd probably have ended up eating otherwise. And if he didn't have to reel them in and scale them, eating fish wasn't that bad.

They ate in silence, and when they were finished Shawn thought it was a nice gesture to carry the plates over into the sink. Not that he had any intention of sticking around to actually wash them. He was long since past the point of voluntarily doing chores in his father's house.

"So, how's the case coming?"

Shawn grabbed a soda from the fridge and sank back down in a chair with a sigh.

"Not good. There's still no lead on the people who did this."

"No lead at all?"

Shawn shrugged. "We found one guy who was attacked by the same guys but survived."

Henry raised both eyebrows. "You did? What did he have to say?"  
"That he doesn't want to talk to the police, for one. And he didn't remember much. It's four guys, he was sure about that. And one of them was wearing the ring of a local fraternity. Pi Sigma Delta."

Henry got up from his chair to pour himself a cup of coffee. "Well, I would call that a lead."

"Not really. Nobody on the fraternity's membership list with a violent or racist background. Gus and I tried to get a closer look at the fraternity house on campus last night, but no luck there either."

Henry frowned. "What did you do? Did you break in?"

"Dad, come on. You should know me better than that."

"How did you get in, Shawn?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "There was a keg party. We went there disguised as party guests. But we didn't get a chance to look into all the bedrooms."

Henry chuckled. "What, you were snooping around the bedrooms of a frat house during a keg party? How many couples making out did you walk into?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny Dad." Shawn shook his head. "It's driving me insane. There are no forensic leads on either murder scene, no DNA or fingerprints that belong to anybody who's already in the system. And the fraternity isn't getting the investigation any further, either."

Henry leaned back and regarded Shawn for a moment. Shawn knew what was coming before his father even said a word.

"If you tell me to close my eyes, I'm out of here."  
Henry shook his head.

"No Shawn, I won't tell you to close your eyes. But just because you don't see it doesn't mean the solution isn't there. What about the timeline?"

Shawn shrugged. "No consistencies, and nothing that stands out. All three murders and the fourth attack took place on different weekdays. Well, the first attack and the second murder both happened on a Monday, but I don't know if that's enough to call it a lead."

"Well, it's a place to start. You're thinking that it's four people who set out together to kill people. As simple as that sounds, if they always set out together, they need to do it when they all have the evening off. So you can cross out all possible suspects from the fraternity who have regular college activities those nights. You can cross out those who work night jobs during those days. The more you know about your suspects, the more people you can exclude from the list."

Shawn sighed. "It's not much."

"No, but it's a start. All you need to find is the one small piece that'll let you crack the case."

Shawn nodded and tiredly rubbed a hand over his face. "Maybe I should drop by the station on my way to the office, see if they pulled the schedules of the people in the fraternity. If anything, it'll help me spend the time until Gus comes off work."

"What have you planned for the evening?"

"We need to paint the office."

"Tonight?" A frown showed on Henry's face. "By the time Gus drops by the office, it'll start getting dark. You really should be painting in daylight. You don't really see what it looks like in artificial light, Shawn. I thought I had taught you a little about renovating."

"I hate to rain on your parade, Dad. But our main window is currently boarded up, and the new window won't be installed until Saturday morning. So even if we paint the office at noon, we're still going to need artificial light because wooden boards aren't exactly known for letting a whole lot of sunshine through."

"At least tape everything off before Gus comes, otherwise you'll be stuck in the office till midnight."

Shawn gave a mock salute. "Aye sir!"

He got up and picked up his helmet from the counter where he had deposited it earlier when he had borrowed the truck.

"Thanks for lunch, Dad."

"You're welcome."

Shawn went over towards the door to leave. He already had his hand on the knob when his father's voice called out to him again.

"Shawn!"

He turned around. "Yes?"

"I know how you are about chasing leads. But in this case, be careful. Going to that fraternity house was an unnecessary risk."

"Dad, I got it under control."

Henry closed his eyes and shook his head. "Just be careful. Don't provoke these people."

"Don't worry about it, Dad. I'm stealth."

Shawn flashed his father a grin and opened the door before his Dad could start another lecture on how he'd better drop the case altogether.

They'd been through that. He wouldn't stop working the case.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Juliet and Lassiter weren't at the police station when Shawn dropped by on his way to the office. He talked to Buzz for a short moment, but other than the info that the two detectives were out the young officer didn't know where they were, either. There wasn't a big folder labeled "Files for Shawn" on either of their desks either, no matter how hard Shawn looked.

So no new information on the case, and his Dad's idea about checking the schedules of the fraternity brothers would have to wait for the next time he met Juliet and Lassiter.

So Shawn had driven to the office.

He had gone through all the files he had on the case again. And again. He had brooded over the forensic reports and the crime scene photos for over an hour until he had given up. There was nothing there that he had previously missed.

Before the thought could drive him entirely mad, Shawn decided that he'd better get started on something else. Maybe something would jump out at him if he only occupied his brain with something else.

So he started taping off the office.

He quickly realized that the only good part about their office being thrashed and totally ransacked was that he didn't need to move a lot of furniture around. He and Gus had already thrown out the remains of their desks and all other broken things the previous day.

It might not look like the most comfortable place right now, but at least it was spacey. And Shawn didn't have to move desks and chairs as he spread the foil over the floor and started taping off the doorframes, windows, light switches and electric outlets.

It took him nearly two hours to tape everything off. Normally it would have taken him a lot less time, but Gus tended to be a little anal about those things. If Shawn was doing this alone, he'd probably not even have bothered taping things off in the first place.

But finally it was done, and the office looked like a scene from an old Enterprise episode.

Shawn turned around once to admire his handiwork, trying to see an outlet or window frame he might have missed taping off because he just knew that Gus would notice. But he had considered everything. He had even taped off the upper side of the window and doorframes, even though nobody ever looked whether the wood up there was spotted with paint or not.

But it seemed as if he had considered everything, so he opened the first container with paint, took out a large brush and started on the first wall. It was a tough choice whether he wanted to get rid of most of the swastikas or the uncountable repetitions of the word nigger first, but he finally decided to start in the kitchen and then work his way around the room.

Just as Shawn was working on painting over the words _cock-sucking nigger-lover_, the door to the office opened and Gus came in. He stopped short as he saw Shawn wielding the brush.

"You already started?"

Shawn put the brush down with a shrug. "Beats sitting around."

Gus stepped closer and looked at the color with a critical expression on his face. "Color looks nice. Of course I need to look at it in daylight before I make my final judgment."

"You sound like my Dad." Shawn groaned. "I didn't want to wait another couple of days until we got the new window."

"I know, I know. But I'm afraid that I'm not dressed right for painting tonight." Gus gestured at his suit. "If I get paint on it, the suit is ruined."

Shawn had expected a lame excuse like that, and with a smile he put the brush down.

"Oh, I figured you'd say that. Which is why I brought you this!"

With a flourish, he produced a small package and threw it at Gus, who caught it and looked at it with a frown.

"An overall?"

Shawn's grin widened. "Yes. They make special paint overalls these days, for those willing to protect their cotton and polyester mixtures from random stray blotches of paint. So loose the jacket and the lame excuses and grab a brush."

Gus sighed, but after a moment he did as he was told, took off his suit jacket and tore open the plastic wrapping around the overall. It was a bit of an awkward process until Gus had shrugged into the white cotton thing, and once he pulled the zipper close Shawn had to hold back a snort of laughter. In the white hooded overall Gus looked like a mixture between a forensics guy and an alien from Star Trek.

Gus, it seemed, was very well aware of how ridiculous he looked. "Not a word Shawn, or I swear I'll drown you in one of those buckets with paint!" Gus warned.

Shawn grinned. "It's a bit hard to take a threat like that seriously. Not when it's coming from a guy who looks like he's just performed Michael Jackson's most recent surgery."

"Shawn!"

"Just grab a brush, Gus."

Shawn picked up his brush again and stepped back towards the wall.

"At least the guy at the home depot didn't lie and the paint really covers well."

Shawn stood in front of the wall and squinted, trying to make out the shape of the words he had already painted over. But the paint was already drying and Shawn was still unable to make out the words below. Maybe, if they were lucky, they'd only have to paint over all the walls once. But the final judgment on that would come once the window was replaced and they saw the walls in daylight.

But still it took long to paint over all the walls in the office. Shawn thought that Gus' distinctly slow method of painting the edges and corners had something to do with it, but he kept his mouth shut and worked on the walls. No need to enrage his friend by criticizing his technique.

Two hours later they were halfway done. Before, Shawn had never appreciated just how many walls their office really had. And just how many corners, nooks and crannies.

With a sigh, Shawn put his brush down and ran the back of his hand over his forehead. He checked his watch. Quarter past ten. They'd need another hour at least to finish painting the walls. And the juice bar a block down the street was only open until half past ten.

"I'm going on a smoothie run," he announced.

Gus nodded, not looking up from the corner he was painting with narrowed eyes and a slightly cramped hand. Shawn had a remark about this not being the Sistine Chapel on the tip of his tongue, but then Gus turned around.

"Smoothies?" He asked.

Shawn shrugged. "I could get you a coffee."

"Nah, a smoothie sounds fine. Mango-Berry-Madness, if they have it."

"Mango-Berry-Madness? Seriously, Gus?"

"That or strawberry."

Shawn frowned, but grabbed his wallet. "Whatever you say. I'll be back in ten."

The juice bar was only a five minute walk away, and if he had to juggle their drinks on his way back it made no sense for Shawn to take the bike. And since Gus would kill him if he got paint from his clothes onto the seats of his car, he decided to walk the distance.

The barista in the juice bar was already preparing to lock up for the night when Shawn came in. No more Mango-Berry-Madness this night, but the barista agreed to make two more strawberry-banana smoothies before she cleaned out the blender.

She was also cute, and Shawn was in high spirits when he left the juice bar and walked back towards the office.

The uncountable garbage bags had been cleared away this morning, and the glass shards had also been cleared away, but with the boarded up front window and the provisionally fixed lock on the front door, it looked far more abandoned than Shawn would have liked. The light seeping out from between the boards in front of the window was the only sign that the office wasn't abandoned.

Juggling both smoothies in his left hand, Shawn reached for the doorknob with his right, opened the door and went into the room.

"Dude, that barista…"

"Shawn!"

Shawn stopped mid-sentence as Gus voice cut him off. There was something in his friend's voice that wasn't quite right, but before he could figure out what it was, an arm suddenly closed around his throat from behind, something hard connected with his head and the world turned black.

* * *

As always, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think. Reviews are always the icing on the cake. Thanks.


	9. If you're cut, I bleed

This is the chapter because of which the story has its rating. Since it's a higher rating than the one I normally go for with my stories, I thought an extra warning was in order. There is graphic violence ahead (not so gory that it would go beyond what's allowed on the site, but graphic nevertheless), so consider yourself warned.

Nevertheless, enjoy!

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**Chapter 8 – If you're cut, I bleed**

Shawn didn't black out from the blow to his head, but for a moment he saw stars explode behind his eyelids. He felt the tight grip somebody was having on his upper arms, but he was too dazed to do anything as he was dragged away from the door and into the office.

The smoothies dropped from his suddenly lax hand, spilling onto the floor and staining the freshly painted wall near the front door.

Before he knew what was happening, Shawn found himself being dragged into the office. Heart beating fast in his throat, Shawn blinked hard to focus his gaze.

One of the buckets of paint was lying on the floor, its content spilled in a yellowy-orange stain on the floor.

There were two guys standing right in the middle of his office. Both were wearing black sweaters and pants, their face hidden behind ski masks that left only their eyes visible. One was rather bulky, muscular, while the other was slenderer and smaller.

Gus was kneeling in front of the bulkier one, held upright by the guy's grip on the collar of his shirt. His painting overall was undone and torn on his left sleeve, the hood was no longer on Gus' head and the zipper was undone halfway down Gus' chest.

Gus was doubled over slightly, both hands clutched against his abdomen in pain, and a thin tendril of blood ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

"Gus!"

Shawn tried to tear himself loose and make a step forward, but the rough grip on his upper arms didn't let up and he was pulled back. A gloved hand closed around his throat and squeezed.

"Good evening, psychic." A voice whispered in his ear, so close that Shawn could feel the coarse fabric of his captor's ski mask scratch along his cheek.

"What do you want?" Shawn forced out. The pressure against his throat was strong, nearly cutting off his air, but no matter how much he struggled, the grip on his arms didn't let up.

The voice beside his ear chuckled. "What I want? Now that's a funny question, psychic. In fact, I was about to ask you the same question."

And suddenly, Shawn understood why he couldn't move. One hand against his throat, two hands holding each upper arm. There were two guys holding him back, that's why he couldn't free himself by struggling. There were four guys with them in the office right now.

"Strange way to ask a question." Shawn croaked out.

Again, the voice laughed. "Yes, you could say that. But then, you just couldn't leave it alone, could you? You just couldn't keep your dirty nose out of this fucking case, could you? No, you have to be all over the media, and you simply had to keep investigating even after we sent you a warning."

The grip around Shawn's throat tightened perceptibly, and he increased his struggles to get free.

"Stop that!"

Shawn struggled to draw enough breath to speak. "What do you want?"

"Reinforce the warning, psychic. Since you saw need to try and get rid of the previous one."

"Warning received. You can go now."

Again, the voice beside his ear chuckled. "Oh, I don't think you've understood it yet. I think you and your…friend," he spat the last word out as if it was a contagious disease he might catch, "need to be taught a lesson first."

The guy holding Gus by the collar of his shirt gave a barking laugh and pushed Gus forward so that he fell to his hands and knees.

Again, Shawn tried to make a step forward, tried to get to his friend's side, but the grip on his own arms was holding him back.

"Leave him alone."

But the guy holding Shawn only laughed.

"No, I think not. I think we're going to do the exact opposite of that. It's your own fault, psychic. You just couldn't stay out of it. You ignored the warning. You kept putting your nose into things that are none of your concern. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I should have known that it would take more than that to deter you. You ignored the warning on the walls, but I'm sure you won't ignore it anymore if your nigger friend himself is the next warning."

"You leave Gus alone!"

"_Leave Gus alone_," the voice mocked with a chuckle. "Oh, is our little psychic worried for his nigger friend? You have every right to be worried."

The grip on his throat loosened and instead the hand went into his hair, pulling so hard that Shawn thought he was going to tear the hair out by its roots.

"I want you to watch it, psychic. I want you to watch every second of it, maybe then the message will finally sink in."

The bulky guy reached for the collar of Gus' shirt again and pulled him upright.

Something tightened in Shawn's stomach. It was obvious what the next message was going to be, but he still didn't want to believe it. There had to be something he could do to stop this from happening. Twisting and turning he tried to get free, but his captors had a tight hold on him. Another hand wrapped around his middle and his captor laughed again.

"Just watch, psychic."

Gus had been slightly dazed through the entire exchange. He was bleeding already, Shawn didn't quite know what they had done to him before he had come back to the office, but he had been at the receiving end of at least a punch or two.

But now that the bulky guy was pulling him back upright, Gus suddenly jerked and tried to move away.

"Gus!"

Gus didn't see the smaller of the two guys advancing on him as he tried to evade the big one coming straight towards him. But Shawn saw how the smaller one drew back his foot. His warning came too late, before Gus even had the time to react, the boot hit him full force in the kidneys.

Gus screamed and was tossed forward by the force of the kick, and the only thing that kept him from falling facedown on the ground was the grip the other guy had on his shirt.

Shawn struggled mindlessly against the tight grip on his arms, but no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't get free.

The bulky guy gave another short bark of laughter as he pulled Gus upright by the collar of his shirt and punched him straight in the nose. There was a disgusting crunching sound as the fist connected with the bone of Gus' nose and effectively smashed it. Gus screamed again in pain as blood ran out of his ruined nose and down his face.

Shawn tried to plant his feet more firmly into the ground to get enough leverage and twist out of his captor's grip, but his feet were slipping on the foil covering the ground.

"Leave him alone! You bastards, I said leave him alone!"

"Oh look, he's worried for his nigger friend. That's what happens to race traitors, psychic. You just shouldn't mingle with niggers, and now you're both getting what you deserve."

"Leave him alone!"

"No. That was just the start."

And it was. Gus was half-kneeling, half-hanging in bulky-guy's grip, hands clasped in front of his face and blood running out from between his fingers. Bulky guy pulled him up again, nearly choking Gus with the collar of his own shirt, and punched him again right in the middle of his face. Gus' yelp of pain was muffled through his hands, and the next moment he received another kick to the lower back by the smaller of the two guys.

When bulky guy finally let go of the shirt, Gus sank to the ground and rolled onto his back, hollowing his back and pressing a hand against his lower back where the kicks had hit his kidneys. The other hand kept covering his nose, and he was tossing his head back and forth as if that could alleviate the pain in any way.

Gus' position on the floor left his ribcage wide open, and bulky guy lost no time to bury his boot in Gus' left side. With a weak yelp, Gus tried to curl in on himself to protect himself, but he was already hurting in too many different places to reach them all.

"Stop it!"

Shawn didn't care if he was yelling himself hoarse. He wouldn't watch a second longer of those guys beating Gus up.

"Stop it! I get the message, I'm off the case!"

"No. You're just lying to get _him_ out of this."

"Leave him alone! He's got nothing to do with this!"

The second guy holding Shawn laughed. "Look how he's pleading for that nigger's life. He really seems to care. Too bad."

Bulky guy looked up at those words, and though he was wearing a ski mask, Shawn was sure that he saw the guy grin.

"Is that true? Do you care for this dirty piece of shit here?"

Bulky guy's voice was deep and rough, and the amusement was obvious in the tone of this words.

"Leave him alone!"

Shawn was jerking so hard that he was sure he lost a fistful of hair to his captor's grip.

Bulky guy just laughed. "If you care so much, then you surely don't want me to do this."

He put a foot down firmly on Gus' right ankle, put his whole weight onto it as he drew back his other leg and gathered momentum for a devastating kick to the back of Gus' knee. Gus yelped and tried to curl in on himself, brought his hands down to cup the knee in pain, but bulky guy only drew back his foot once more and kicked again, never minding that Gus' hand came in between.

"I'd say he's not really pain resistant, this one."

Gus managed to pull his hurt knee up a little towards his chest, but as if he had only waited for that opportunity, bulky guy started raining kick after kick onto the knee and lower leg, one after another without any pause. Gus' single cries of pain melted into one continuous scream that tore at Shawn's insides and made his blood run cold.

Shawn was frantically struggling in his captors' grasp, twisting and jerking in a desperate attempt to get free, but they were holding him too tightly. No matter what he did, no matter which way he tried to twist, there was always a hand holding him back. He was clawing at them, trying to kick backwards in a desperate attempt to hit one of them, but other than tearing out more of his hair he achieved nothing.

And bulky guy was still maltreating Gus' knee and leg. The smaller of the two guys beating Gus seemed content for the moment with the occasional kick Gus' ribs and side, but each of the blows bulky guy delivered to Gus' knee and leg was precise and forceful.

But bulky guy had other plans. He looked up to make sure that Shawn was still watching, then he put one foot down firmly on Gus' lower leg.

"I want you to watch this carefully, psychic."

Shawn fought against the restraining grip on his arms.

"Stop it!"

Bulky guy shook his head.

"No. And you know what's the fun about this? There's not a thing you can do to stop me."

And Shawn had no choice but to watch. The grip on his hair was keeping his head firmly in place, no matter how much he struggled to and fro in a desperate attempt to get free and help Gus.

Bulky guy took his foot away from Gus' leg. The slender assailant moved in to lift Gus' leg slightly by taking a firm hold on his ankle and shoe, then bulky guy drew back his foot and with a whoop of delight that bordered on obscene jumped onto Gus' leg with the full force of his movement and body weight.

Shawn could hear the bone break.

A split second before Gus' blood-freezing scream tore through the office, all Shawn could hear was the sound of bone breaking. It was a sound that etched itself into Shawn's very core. He thought he was going to be physically sick right here in the middle of the office.

Gus was howling in pain, writing on the floor. Shawn could see the blood seeping into the pant leg of the white overall Gus was still wearing and felt the bile rise in his throat again.

"Stop it. Please, just leave him alone."

He wasn't yelling anymore, it came out as a broken whisper, but it seemed to amuse the guy who was holding Shawn to no end.

The smaller assailant lat go of Gus' leg and suddenly came over towards them, to the side where the ringleader of the guys was standing holding Shawn back. In a wordless choreography, the two of them exchanged places.

For a moment, the grip on Shawn's right upper arm and his hair was loosened, but Shawn was too stunned and shocked to do anything. His eyes were fixed only on Gus lying on the floor, whimpering in pain as bulky guy delivered yet another kick into his ribs. And just as quickly as the hand restraining his upper arm was gone, another pair of hands replaced it, clawing into his skin through gloves and shirt as they pulled Shawn back.

The guy who had overwhelmed Shawn when he had come into the office was stepping over towards Gus now, looking down at Shawn's friend through the slit in his mask. He was slightly smaller than bulky guy, but even beneath the black hooded sweater and the pants it was obvious that he was muscular and fit.

"Look at your friend, psychic. Pathetic, isn't he? They all squeal like dirty pigs when you punch them around a little. Sometimes they beg, sometimes they cry. One of them even pissed his pants. But this nigger only whimpers."

He kicked Gus straight in the stomach. There was no warning, the movement of him drawing back his foot was nearly imperceptible, but the blow was strong enough to push Gus a few inches along the floor.

"Leave him alone. I'll do whatever you want, but leave Gus alone. He's had enough. If you want to

smack somebody around, take me. Beat me up, but leave Gus alone. Just leave him alone."

Shawn didn't care that he was begging. He didn't care if he had to beg, if he had to go down to his knees, and he didn't care if those racist assholes would beat him senseless. As long as they stopped hurting Gus, Shawn didn't care.

But if anything, the leader of the gang was only amused by Shawn's begging.

"No. This is a message, psychic. And I still think it hasn't yet sunk in."

Gus was lying curled up on his side, eyes screwed shut in pain and panting heavily through his mouth, blood from his broken nose running into his mouth and over his chin. His left leg was curled up towards his body, but his right leg was sticking away from it at an awkward angle, blood still seeping through the white of the cotton painting overall.

The ringleader of the four chuckled softly. "Look at that. The dirty pig is hurting. Maybe it's time to put him out of his misery."

He raised his leg and stomped down on Gus' unprotected ribcage. Gus' whimper rose into another scream, and Shawn stopped thinking. His brain switched off and he single-mindedly tore on his captors' hold.

And suddenly, he was free. The hold of the smaller assailant on his right arm was gone, and for one glorious moment Shawn thought that he was free. He all but forgot about the grip the fourth guy was still having on his left arm as he struggled to get over towards Gus.

But bulky guy saw the movement, and before Shawn knew what was happening he was at his side and was holding Shawn back with an arm around his middle.

The grip around his arm returned, Shawn looked in disbelief as the hand closed around his arm again, nails digging into his skin through the torn cotton fabric of the assailant's glove.

Another hand went into his hair again, tearing painfully at its roots as his head was forced up again. The leader was now standing alone beside Gus, watching with a satisfied expression in his eyes until he was sure that Shawn was properly restrained and watching him again.

"Just stop struggling, psychic. I'd hate to have to hurt you as well, that would ruin the whole sense of the warning. You are merely here as a spectator."

"Leave him alone, asshole."

"We've been through that, psychic. The answer is no."

And he turned around to deliver another kick to Gus' ribs, right in the same place where the previous kick had impacted. It was another hard kick, but what scared Shawn more than this new assault was that Gus barely reacted.

He didn't scream, he barely brought out another whimper. He didn't try to curl in protectively. It seemed struggle enough for Gus to keep breathing.

The guy drew back his foot again, aiming for Gus' chest this time.

"No! Stop!"  
But Shawn's scream didn't stop the kick. He was still struggling against the hands that held him back, no matter that it were three guys that were restraining him. Shawn was jerking around, kicking wildly and mindlessly with his feet while he tried to get his arms free. Occasionally his kicks did really hit their mark, but they were far too weak to cause any real damage, let alone get him free.

The grip in his hair was still there, holding his head in place so that Shawn had no choice but to watch what the leader was doing to Gus. No choice but to close his eyes, but that would have been even worse.

"Stop it, you asshole! Leave Gus alone. Why don't you pick someone your own size?"

But the guy only laughed. "Because the nigger is a thorn in my side. And because it's so much more fun to watch him whimper and cry. And of course I'm doing this because of _you_, psychic. This is all your fault, you should have just kept your nose out of other people's business and your nigger-friend would have been safe. But you chose to try and find us. You came snooping after us. You brought all this upon him."

Shawn nearly pulled his shoulder out of its socket as he watched how the guy drew back his foot again. In movies and books, this was always be moment when the hero developed superhuman powers that let him shake off any number of attackers. But Shawn wasn't the protagonist in an action movie. He simply didn't have the strength to pull free, no matter how hard he tried, and all he could do was watch.

The only thing that did happen the same way it happened in movies was time. As if in slow-motion Shawn watched how the guy's foot raced towards Gus' face.

Shawn didn't want to watch, didn't want to see this, but he had no choice but to look and see how the heavily booted foot connected with Gus' jaw. Gus' head snapped back, his lip split and added even more blood to the red flow from his broken nose. The back of Gus' head connected with the foil-covered floor boards, and for the fragment of a second Shawn saw Gus' eyes roll back in his head before his lids closed.

Distinctly, over the thunder of blood in his own ears, Shawn heard a voice scream and yell, but he was too far disconnected from reality to recognize the voice as his own.

It was like one of those dreams in which you're running and running but don't get an inch ahead. Shawn was running, he was moving his feet, he was tearing and clawing at the hands holding him back, but he didn't get one step farther. The only thing his mind revolved around was getting to Gus, getting to his friend's side and stop this madness, stop this guy from hurting Gus even further. Shawn didn't care what he had to do, he didn't care whether he had to kill this guy with his bare hands, but he couldn't stand to see this for one more second.

But he was powerless.

Completely and utterly powerless.

He couldn't stop this.

He couldn't protect Gus.

He couldn't do a fucking thing as the guy delivered yet another kick to the side of Gus' head. He couldn't do a single thing as a gloved fist connected with Gus' cheekbone, or as the guy pulled Gus up by the front of his overall, and then pushed him back to the ground with a disgusted snort.

Gus fell like a limp rag doll, the back of his head bouncing hard against the floorboards. Gus was no longer moving, that was the worst part.

Unconsciousness might be a blessed relief from the pain for his friend right now, but Shawn was scared that it wasn't just that. He was scared that Gus wasn't just unconscious.

Shawn was scared shitless that those guys were about to do the same thing to Gus that they had done to their previous three victims, and that he'd have to watch them do it. There should be something he could do, anything to draw their attention away from his friend and towards himself, but there wasn't.

There was nothing he could do as the ringleader delivered yet another hard kick into Gus' ribs and turned around.

"Seems like I broke our toy."

There was obvious disappointment in his voice. Bulky guy chuckled into Shawn's ear, and with a yell of frustration Shawn snapped his head back in an attempt to head butt the guy and shut him up.

The only thing he achieved was to tear out even more of his hair. Bulky guy chuckled again, and suddenly there was another hand gripping Shawn's hair, pulling his head forward, and he found himself looking into the eyes of the guy who had just beaten Gus into unconsciousness.

Their faces were only inches apart, and Shawn could see the laugh lines around the dark blue eyes so clearly that he could have counted them.

"That was our last warning, psychic."

Shawn didn't see the movement of the fist drawing back, had no second of a warning to tighten his muscles before a fist hit him squarely in the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of him.

He sank in on himself with a grunt, and suddenly the hands holding him were gone and he was kneeling on the ground, holding his aching middle.

"Stay out of things that are too big for you to handle. The next time, we won't play nice."

Shawn didn't react to the voice coming from above, and a moment later four pairs of booted feet moved towards the front door of the office. One of the guys stepped on Shawn's left hand on his way out, but he barely even noticed the pain.

The rational part of his brain knew that he should follow them, that he should look what car they got into and memorize the license plate, but right now rationality could screw itself.

Still struggling for breath, Shawn crawled over to where Gus was lying without a second thought about whether or not he was getting enough air. Gus was still lying in the same position he had fallen the last time he had been thrown to the ground – on his back with his eyes closed.

His leg was still bleeding, bent at an awkward angle below the knee. The white overall was stained with paint and blood, torn in many places, and Gus' head…

Shawn was used to a lot of things. He was used to seeing bodies, he was used to seeing crime scenes. But looking at Gus' face right now, Shawn felt the bile rise in his throat.

Gus' nose was nothing but a bloody mess, swollen grotesquely and bleeding, his lower lip was swollen twice its normal size and split, one eye was already swollen shut with the other not too far behind, and there was a lump on the side of his head where no lump was supposed to be.

"Gus."

Shawn wanted to touch Gus, needed to touch him, pat his cheek to wake him up, feel for his pulse to make sure that he was still alive, but he didn't know how. He didn't know where. He was afraid to touch Gus, afraid to aggravate all those injuries any further.

What did they teach you in first aid? Recovery position. But there was no way Shawn was going to

move Gus.

Check his breathing.

Was Gus still breathing?  
Shawn couldn't hear anything, but over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears he would have missed a truck driving by a few inches from him.

Was Gus still breathing? His chest was moving, that had to mean he was still breathing, right? But something was wrong, Shawn couldn't put his finger on it but he simply knew that something was wrong.

Gus needed help.

Fast.

Shawn reached into his pocket, tugging and pulling at the cell phone that chose this moment of all moments to get stuck in the fabric of his pocket. Finally he had it out, flipped the phone open and fumbled with suddenly too big fingers on suddenly too small buttons.

It were only three numbers, but in his current state it felt as if he had to play a difficult tune on the piano.

It took him a couple of tries, but finally his fingers hit the right buttons and he brought the phone up to his ear as his call was connected to the number he had dialed – 911.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thank you!


	10. Fear

I couldn't leave you hanging for too long after the last chapter. Not that I promise a big resolve, not yet ;-) But at least another (long) chapter that lets you know how things continue.

Enjoy!

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**Chapter 9 – Fear**

Carlton Lassiter was in a foul mood.

Coming from him, that said something. He knew that most uniformed officers thought he was in a perpetually foul mood, but that simply wasn't true. He just didn't see the need to go parading around the station with a smile plastered to his face. He was a cop. Head detective of the SBPD. He represented something, he had to be a role model to the younger officers. Smiles weren't a part of that, and if anybody was too thick to notice the subtle degrees of his mood for what they were, well – that didn't bode well for their career.

But right now, Carlton Lassiter was officially in a foul mood.

He had three unsolved murders on his plate, another victim who had probably been attacked by the same perpetrators but who had gone AWOL, and since yesterday he now also had the FBI breathing down his neck. Lassiter knew how that worked. They might send in their most nerdy agent right now, but Lassiter knew that they'd be on the case in a heartbeat as soon as they were given a reason.

And he was not going to give up this case willingly. Not to the FBI. Not if he could prevent it. But that was exactly the problem. If he wanted to stop the FBI from taking over and effectively marking the SBPD incompetent of solving the case, he needed to find a lead. Soon.

And if there was one thing they didn't have right now, it were leads. Or evidence. Well, they had plenty of evidence on the case, but none that was going to get them any further in their investigation. DNA that wasn't in the system, generic fibers, generic boot prints. Just what he needed.

And now he had spent an entire day validating alibis. And who was to blame? Shawn Spencer, of course. All it had taken was one crappy pseudo-vision and the Chief was all over it. Lassiter respected Chief Vick, he really did, but when it came to Spencer he sometimes doubted her sanity. He didn't know why she was giving the man so much leeway. And he really didn't understand how she practically jumped at every lead he was tossing their way, no matter how ridiculous it seemed.

Truth be told, all they had that connected the murder cases to the Pi Sigma Delta fraternity was the word of a psychic. An alleged psychic, since Lassiter was still waiting for some real proof of the man's abilities.

Spencer had come into the station, had butchered one of the few songs Lassiter really liked, had done some pseudo-cheerleading and suddenly everybody thought they'd find the murderers if they only investigated the fraternity close enough.

If Lassiter was ever going to become Chief, this was going to stop. The first thing he'd do would be to impose a ban on all psychics in the police station, for all times. Sometimes, when he was close to really consider shooting the man he'd imagine Spencer's face when he kicked him out of the station for good. So far, it served well to get him through those days.

But right now, he needed to check the alibis of the fraternity brothers because Spencer thought for some reason that there was a connection. He and O'Hara had split the list, but even so it had taken him the entire day to get through his half of the list. Without result. Some of the students had attended their scheduled classes on the evenings of the murders. Some hadn't. Some had solid alibis, but there were still far too many who hadn't.

Half the people on Lassiter's list didn't even have classes scheduled for the time of the murder. So they all remained on the suspect list for the time being. Probably until Spencer had another _vision_.

With a sigh, Lassiter sank down in his desk chair and loosened his tie. He would check for messages and reports that had come in while he had been away, and then he'd call it a night. FBI or not, he needed some sleep, and he'd better catch it while he still could. If they ever caught a break on this case, he'd quite probably be working double shifts.

There were no messages, and only a few reports by junior officers which he had to sign off before they were handed over to the Chief. It took ten minutes all in all, then Lassiter was ready to leave for the night.

And of course the phone rang just as he turned around and took a step away from his desk. His first reaction was to roll his eyes and groan, look up to the heavens and ask what bad karma he could have possibly accumulated in his previous life to have earned this, but that was not the reaction befitting a head detective. So he merely drew a deep breath and picked up the phone.

"Lassiter."

"Detective, it's Jennings from dispatch. I need you to come down here for a moment."

"I'm on my way."

Lassiter put the receiver down and started walking down the corridor. Calls from dispatch were no rarity, after all dispatch coordinated all incoming calls, and they were the ones who passed the information on to the detectives. But what was out of the ordinary was that he was called to actually come down to dispatch. Lassiter only hoped that it wasn't a big problem. Hopefully no trouble worthy of internal affairs, or yet another sexual harassment suit. Those were the downsides of being head detective – he was always the first to get to know about those kind of things.

Dispatch was located on the ground floor, in a room just off the main entrance of the building. It was manned 24/7 by officers who coordinated the incoming 911 calls and passed the information on to the patrol cars and if necessary, ambulances. When Lassiter came into the room, all of the officers on duty were busy talking into their headsets or typing. Jennings was the only one who was sitting behind his desk with his headset slung around his neck, typing away at the computer in front of him.

"Jennings, what is it?"

Lassiter stepped up to the man's desk. He kept his tone deliberately brusque, hoping Jennings would get the message and get this over and done with as quickly as possible. Jennings looked up, then typed something into his computer.

"I just got a 911 call right before I called you. I thought you would be interested."

Before Lassiter could even ask why the man thought he'd find a 911 call interesting, Jennings typed another command into his computer, clicked on a symbol with his mouse, and the recording of the call started to play over the tiny speakers of the computer.

_"911, what's your emergency?"_

_"I need an ambulance."_

Lassiter immediately recognized Spencer's voice. And the moment he heard it, he knew that something was seriously wrong. Of course, if Spencer called for an ambulance, something had to be wrong. People didn't just call for ambulances for the fun of it, not even Spencer. But it was the tone of voice that spoke volumes about the seriousness of whatever had happened.

Lassiter had seen it happen often before. He worked with people who dealt with emergencies and calls to the police every day of their lives. There came a point when 911 calls became routine. But Lassiter had seen it happen before that all this was forgotten as soon as those people found themselves in a situation when they were involved personally. It was as if the brain stopped working when it was somebody you cared about who was in need of assistance.

Spencer had called 911, he hadn't thought to call one of the many detectives on his speed dial. And there was undisguised panic in his voice. As the call played, Lassiter noticed how the psychic barely answered to Jennings' questions, but merely kept repeating that he needed an ambulance, rattling off an address that Lassiter recognized as the address of the Psych office. Jennings had tried to keep Spencer on the line, had tried to get more information out of the man, but after the first reassurance that the ambulance was on its way, the psychic had disconnected the call.

Jennings stopped the recording and looked up at Lassiter. "I sent an ambulance over immediately, as well as the nearest patrol unit. McNabb and Parker, they were closest to the scene. The ambulance checked in their arrival just before you came down here. I just thought you'd want to know."

Lassiter nodded, feeling strangely numb. "Do you have any idea what happened?"

Jennings shook his head. "No, he didn't answer my questions. He didn't even say who was hurt, just that he needed an ambulance."

But Lassiter knew. Somehow, he knew.

If they were at the office, and if Spencer was this worked up about whatever had happened, it had to be Guster. Everything else didn't make sense. He turned around to leave and spoke over his shoulder.

"Call O'Hara, tell her what happened. Have her come to whatever hospital the ambulance is going. Then call McNabb and tell him I'm on my way, and that he's to guard the scene until I arrive."

"Yes, sir."

Lassiter left the room, and as soon as the door closed behind him he started running. The ambulance was already on the scene, that meant he'd better get fast if he wanted to know what had happened. Judged by the state he had been in during the 911 call, Spencer might not be in the condition to answer any questions coherently. He barely was in what he called his normal state.

Lassiter pulled out of the parking lot with flashing lights and siren blaring. No matter that Spencer was a pain in the ass of law enforcement in this city, he was an employee of the SBPD. As head detective it was his duty to get there as quickly as possible. And it was not that difficult to piece together what had happened.

Spencer and Guster were working the case of a bunch of racists who made a habit out of beating people to death. Those guys had already broken into their office once, ransacking and spray painting it.

Guster was black.

It was really not that hard to figure out what had happened.

Nevertheless, Lassiter hoped and prayed that he was wrong.

It could be anything, actually. Maybe Spencer and Guster had had another of those ridiculous desk chair races and Guster had bumped his head. Maybe Guster had merely broken a finger during one of those thumb-wars the two occasionally held. Maybe he had slipped on a banana peel. There were so many possible explanations as to what had set Spencer off like that. It wasn't like he was the most calm and reserved person on any normal day.

But deep down Lassiter knew that the explanation wasn't that simple and harmless. After so many years as a cop he knew when to trust his gut feeling. And right now his gut told him that this was serious.

Just as he pulled into the street that would take him down to the beach promenade where the Psych office was located, an ambulance drove past him in the opposite direction, the sound of its siren clashing horribly with Lassiter's own. Lassiter put the foot down on the accelerator even harder and pulled into the parking lot beside the office.

There was another ambulance standing in front of the office, and a black and white patrol car standing beside it, both with their doors open and their lights still flashing. Already, the first crowd of onlookers was starting to build up near the street. He'd need to tell McNabb and Parker to cordon off the area before they dared to get any closer.

Lassiter got out of his car, shut the door and went into the office. He knew that the situation was probably secure, two officers were already at the scene and one ambulance had left towards the hospital without being held up. Nevertheless, his hand strayed close to his shoulder holster as he stepped into the office.

Two feet into the office, he stopped short.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand sank down from hovering beside his gun to hanging loosely beside his leg, but he barely noticed.

It looked as if Spencer and Guster had been trying to repaint the office when whatever had happened had happened. The whole room was covered in plastic foil, all outlets, doors and windows were taped off, and half of the obscenities and racist ramblings had vanished from the walls. But then something had gone wrong, seriously wrong by the looks of it.

One of the cans of paint had been knocked over, spreading paint all over the foil-covered floor. A myriad of footprints went to and for through the office, some of them possibly created by the perps, but most of them stemming from the paramedics who had been in here earlier.

There was an area off by one wall around which the footprints in the paint were most concentrated. That was also where most of the blood was. There weren't huge puddles of blood, no spray of blood on the walls that would suggest anybody getting shot, but there was enough blood on the floor for Lassiter to know that whatever had happened had been bad.

There was something on the ground in the middle of one of the blood stains, and curiosity got the better of Lassiter as he carefully stepped closer, always minding not to step into the paint, and bent down to have a look.

Once he recognized what it was he was looking at, he quickly straightened up and drew a couple of deep breaths to keep his meager dinner down. It was a tooth. Covered in blood as it was it had been barely recognizable from a distance, but it was a tooth. An incisor, the white enamel stained red. But what made Lassiter's stomach revolt wasn't the tooth as such, it were the bits of tissue still clinging to the root. Whatever had knocked out this tooth, there had been a lot of force behind it.

"Detective!"

Lassiter turned around and came face to face with Officer Parker, McNabb's partner on patrol. The young officer was pale, and his relief at seeing the superior officer arrive was obvious. Lassiter didn't envy the younger man for the experience. The first case where you knew the victim was always hard, and everybody at the precinct knew Spencer and Guster. Half the precinct would joint their fan club if they only had one.

"Parker, what happened?"

"We arrived here shortly after the ambulance did, sir. The perps were already gone, and the paramedics were treating Mr. Guster."

So it had been Guster who had been hurt. Not that Lassiter had needed any more confirmation, but still. Now he knew for sure.

"What happened then?"

Parker shrugged awkwardly. "The paramedics took Mr. Guster away pretty quickly. They didn't say much, but his condition seemed serious enough. Head trauma, and he had problems breathing. They've taken him to Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital."

"What about the second ambulance?"

"We called it in after we arrived. Shawn…I mean, Mr. Spencer, he's in a bad condition."

Lassiter frowned as he let his eyes roam through the office in search for the psychic. "Why, he got hurt, too?"

Parker shook his head. "No sir. He's…extremely distraught."

Lassiter finally found what he was looking for, wondering how he could have missed Spencer during his first sweep of the office. But then again he had been distracted by the blood and that tooth on the ground. Not looking away from the corner in which Spencer was cowering, Lassiter gave out his next instructions to Parker.

"Cordon off the office, there's already the first gapers outside. Then call CSU, they need to start working here as soon as the second ambulance has left."

Parker nodded and went outside, and Lassiter drew another deep breath before he started walking towards Spencer.

The psychic was crouched in a corner of the room, his back to the wall and his knees pressed against his chest. He had his arms wrapped around his head and was staring off blankly into space. To Lassiter, the younger man didn't look hurt, at least not obviously. However, it was clear that he was in shock. It had been a good idea to call the second ambulance, though the two paramedics were standing a few feet away from Spencer, looking at him without doing anything.

It seemed strange that the paramedics weren't treating Spencer, but Lassiter noticed how McNabb was crouching between them and the psychic, slightly closer to Spencer than they were but keeping his distance. The young officer was talking in low tones, a constant murmur that was indiscernible for Lassiter. And the yellow paint stains on McNabb's uniform pants were a testament to what had happened the last time he had gotten too close to the psychic.

If Spencer was so far in shock that he didn't seem to recognize people who were trying to help him, it was important to get him into hospital, as well. And judged by the nonexistent success of McNabb's soft approach, Lassiter decided that it was time to try a different tactic.

Careful of the paint stains on the floor so that he wouldn't destroy any evidence, Lassiter closed the remaining distance between himself and Spencer. McNabb looked up as he passed him.

"He's not really here, sir. He freaked out when the ambulance took Gus away, and doesn't let anybody get near him since."

Lassiter nodded. He had figured that much.

"Spencer!"

There was no perceptible reaction, but at least Spencer didn't lash out at him as he took yet another step closer.

"Damn it Spencer, snap out of it! I don't have all day, and I can't work this crime scene until you get your butt out of here!"

Slowly, Spencer blinked a few times and turned his head towards Lassiter.

"Do you hear me, Spencer?"

"Lassie?"

Spencer's voice was hoarse, and actually Lassiter didn't even want to think about how that had happened. Spencer's eyes were still glazed, but Lassiter imagined that he saw at least some clarity in them.

"Yes Spencer, it's me. And you're holding up my crime scene investigation. So how about you let those paramedics look at you now and then go to the hospital?"

Spencer shook his head and looked around the office. His breathing was coming in short, harsh gasps and he kept on biting his lip. Only when he took his arms away from their position over his head did Lassiter notice that his shirt was torn at the sleeves, and that his head was a mess. The otherwise always so carefully crafted _'I just fell out of bed that way'_-hairstyle was ruined, standing up at odd angles, and strands of hair lined the collar of his plaid shirt as if somebody had ripped at them.

"Where's Gus?"

Oh, for the love of all that was good, please don't let him have an amnesiac episode. Lassiter was not going to be the one to rehash the little he knew about this attack to the man.

"He's in the hospital."

"He was hurt."

Lassiter nodded, though he doubted that Spencer could see. He never got tired of comparing Spencer and his antics to those of a small child, but this was the first time he really felt that he wouldn't get through to the man if he didn't talk to him just that way – as if he was talking to a small child. Spencer's abilities at grasping things seemed very diminished right now.

"Yes, he was. And he's in the hospital now. Which is where you're going now, as well."

Spencer nodded, but made no move to get up.

"Spencer, do you hear me?"

Again, Spencer nodded without moving. Lassiter suppressed a groan.

"All right Spencer, the paramedics are going to take you to the ambulance now. Are you hurt? Is there anything they need to watch out for?"

Spencer shook his head. "Gus was hurt."

"Yes, we know that. But are you hurt anywhere?"

Another shake of the head. "They only hit Gus. Said it was a warning."

Lassiter filed that information away for further use and with a nod gestured for the paramedics to approach. Spencer jumped slightly as one of them put a hand on his arm, but he didn't lash out. Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet and allowed one of the paramedics to lead him to the ambulance that was waiting outside. Lassiter ran a hand through his hair with a sigh and was just about to start barking out orders at McNabb to secure the scene when the other paramedic addressed him.

"Sir, if possible it might be good if you came along."

"Pardon me?"

The man shrugged. "Right now he's calm, but you didn't see him earlier. I don't want to sedate him if not absolutely necessary, not before he was checked out thoroughly. He seems to react to you, if he has another episode in the ambulance I'd be more at ease if you were there."

Lassiter sighed. "All right."

He turned towards McNabb. "You and Parker stay here and secure the scene. Parker should have radioed CSU already. Call the Chief, tell her to come here. I'll be at the hospital."

The young officer nodded. "Of course, sir."

Lassiter turned around and made his way over towards the front door of the office. On his way, he pulled out his cell phone. The hospital had probably called whoever was first on Guster's contact list already, he'd check that as soon as he got there. But for now, there was one person he needed to call himself. If only so that he wouldn't be stuck guarding Spencer for any longer than necessary. Scrolling through his address book for a moment, Lassiter found the number and dialed.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Henry had known that one day, this call would come.

He just hadn't imagined it to be quite like this.

He had just switched off the TV and gotten comfortable with the thought of going to bed now when his cell phone had started ringing. His first thought hat been that it was Shawn. The kid should be painting the office just about now, but if he was calling with a question about DIY at nearly eleven in the night, it would become a short conversation. But maybe he needed help on the case, and considering that Henry didn't want his son to work this racist case in the first place, he'd be glad about every new bit of information he could gather. Maybe that way, he could stop him from getting too involved in things that could get dangerous.

But it hadn't been Shawn on the other end. It had been Lassiter.

For a long time, Henry hadn't experienced the feeling of his stomach plummeting down into bottomless depths, but the moment the head detective had said his name, that was exactly what had happened. Lassiter didn't just call him out of the blue. And they hadn't scheduled any fishing appointments he could possibly want to cancel. So this call had to be about Shawn.

And it had been. Only, Shawn wasn't the one who had been hurt. Lassiter had been clear about that, as if he was trying to pacify Henry with the message. Shawn wasn't hurt, he was merely roughed up a bit and in shock. It was Gus who had been hurt.

And somehow, that piece of news didn't do anything to get Henry's stomach back up from its position somewhere between his knees. If Gus was hurt, then this had to do with that case of the racist murders. Henry didn't know where his conviction of that fact came from, but he trusted his gut feeling on that. And if those racists had hurt Gus, it was bad.

All thoughts about going to bed had vanished as quickly as they had come. Instead of going upstairs, Henry put on a pair of shoes and got into his truck, driving towards the hospital as fast as he could.

But despite the fact that Henry blatantly ignored the speed limit for most of his way, it still took an endless twenty minutes until he parked the truck in the hospital parking lot and got out. He didn't like to admit it, but he knew the way around the hospital and the ER like he knew his way around his own house. He had been here far too often because of Shawn, and occasionally also because of Gus.

The sliding glass doors opened in front of him and he lost no time hurrying into the hospital and towards the ER-waiting area. He directed his steps towards the nurse manning the reception desk in the ER, but then he saw Winnie and Bill sitting in two of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area, and he changed his course and walked towards them. Both Gus' parents looked distinctly pale and queasy, and Winnie was constantly dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a bunched up tissue.

"Winnie, Bill."

Bill looked up immediately upon hearing Henry's voice. He had one arm on his wife's back the other clenched into a fist at his side.

"Henry."

"What happened?"

Bill just shook his head. "I don't know. We got a call saying that Gus has been brought here, so we came immediately. But they won't tell us anything, only that he's in surgery right now."

Winnie uttered a small, choked sob, and Bill rubbed his hand up and down her back comfortingly. Bill looked shaken up, but there was a deep-rooted anger simmering in his eyes.

"Somebody beat him up, Henry. Somebody beat my son up so badly that he's in surgery now."

Henry ran a hand over his head and sighed. So it was true. And if Gus had been beaten into hospital, it was no big leap to assume that it had been those racist idiots who were behind it. And while his heart went out to what Winnie and Bill had to be going through, right now he needed to know where Shawn was.

"I'll be back in a few moments, all right?"

Bill nodded wordlessly, and Winnie still acted as if she wasn't really aware of anybody's presence but her husband's. Henry turned around and went over towards the nurse behind the reception desk.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm looking for my son. Shawn Spencer. I was told he was brought here."

The nurse nodded and checked something on her chart. "Of course. Shawn Spencer. Down the corridor and to the left."

That was all she seemed to be willing to say. The phone on her desk rang and the nurse picked it up, leaving no doubt to the fact that their conversation was over. But at least Henry had all the information he needed. There had been occasions when it had been harder for him to get through to his son in this very hospital.

He quickly hurried down the corridor the nurse had indicated and took a left turn at its end. He ended up in another corridor, and at its end he could see Lassiter standing beside a treatment area that was closed off by a curtain. The detective had been staring at the ground with his arms crossed over his chest, but as he heard steps approach he looked up.

"Where is Shawn?" Henry asked without preamble as he got within hearing range.

"He's in there." Lassiter said and gestured towards the area behind the curtain. "A doctor has been by to examine him, but they thought he shouldn't be left alone."

Henry quickly made move to pull the curtain aside. If Shawn wasn't to be left alone, that meant he had been agitated. And Henry only hoped they hadn't given him any meds to calm him down. "Did they sedate him?"

"No, I don't think so. Why, is he allergic to anything? They had a file on him that was about an inch thick, shouldn't any allergies have been in there?"

Henry shook his head, his hand on the curtain. "No allergy. But Shawn doesn't react well to being sedated. It's best to either put him under completely or not to give him anything. He can't think straight when he's on meds, and it drives him nuts."

He shook his head and pulled the curtain aside. It was not easy to explain why his son couldn't deal with his brain being fogged by meds. He simply couldn't, and that was why Shawn refused to take medication unless he was in some serious pain. Being sedated always gave him the feeling that his head was no longer functioning properly.

And all thoughts about whether or not Shawn had been sedated were gone quickly when Henry pulled aside the curtain and got a first glimpse at his son.

Shawn was sitting on the bed, hands folded loosely in his lap. His head was bent and he was staring down at his thighs as if there was something very interesting to see there. Shawn was shirtless, and as always when saw his son without a shirt, Henry's eyes immediately fell onto the large scar on Shawn's chest. Had his stomach not already done the big leap into unknown depths, Henry knew it would have done so at this very moment.

It had been nearly ten years ago, but the memories were still fresh. It was only easy to forget how Shawn had received that scar when Henry wasn't forced to see it.

And normally he didn't. Shawn was always wearing his shirts buttoned up, or he was wearing a t-shirt underneath, and Henry knew that it was partly so that the scar wouldn't show. Shawn didn't want to answer the questions that always followed when somebody saw the scar. But Henry couldn't just forget about it.

He couldn't forget about those hours spent in the very same waiting room where Winnie and Bill were sitting right now after Shawn had had that big accident with his bike. He couldn't forget about the doctor coming out after a small eternity to tell him about the injuries Shawn had sustained, about the broken ribs and chest trauma. He couldn't forget about the emergency surgery and the days Shawn spent in ICU afterwards. He could push the memories away when he was not forced to confront them, but he couldn't forget.

But today his eyes lingered on the large scar only for a moment. The deep purple bruises on Shawn's arms stood out so starkly against his pale skin that Henry's eyes were immediately drawn towards them. Shawn's upper left arm was badly bruised, the marks distinct enough for the cop in Henry to recognize them as the marks left by the fingers of somebody holding Shawn back.

His right arm looked even worse. It showed the same purplish bruises, but here the skin was also scratched in places. Orange-yellow stains on Shawn's skin showed where the cuts had been treated with disinfectant, but obviously the gashes hadn't been bad enough to require bandages.

Aside from the bruises Shawn didn't look seriously hurt. But what worried Henry most was that his son had yet to react to his presence. He hadn't as much as looked up when Henry had pulled back the curtain. Carefully, Henry stepped up to the bed.

"Shawn?"

Shawn rocked slightly back and forth, but Henry was unable to tell whether or not that was a reaction to his words. He took a couple of steps closer towards the bed so that he was standing beside Shawn. His first instinct was to put a hand on Shawn's shoulder, to touch him if only to tear him out of his silent reverie, but he suppressed that urge. He and Shawn weren't the touchy kind of guys on a good day, and he didn't know how Shawn would react to being touched right now.

"Hey kiddo. How are you feeling?"

Shawn swallowed and finally raised his head and looked up at his father. Henry was shocked when he saw the empty look in his son's otherwise so expressive eyes. But it wasn't the numb expression of somebody on sedatives. No, that hollow expression came from Shawn himself, without the aid of any medication. It took a long moment until Shawn's eyes finally focused on his father.

"Dad."

His voice was hoarse, and Henry started a little upon hearing it. Earlier, when Shawn had dropped by for lunch, his voice had been just fine. But somewhere in between then and now, Shawn had obviously screamed himself hoarse. Henry felt his own throat tighten at the mere thought.

"How are you doing?"

Shawn shrugged. "I'm fine. How's Gus?"

Henry swallowed and sat down on the edge of Shawn's bed, careful to keep his distance. Shawn would let him know if he wanted contact.

"Gus is in surgery. His parents are waiting outside, but it might take a while until there's news. What happened?"

Shawn shrugged again. "It was those guys. They were in the office when I came back. It was because of the case, Dad. They beat Gus up because I was working the case. And there was nothing I could do. They held me back and made me watch how they beat Gus up."

Shawn's eyes were suspiciously shiny, but Henry decided to ignore that. Shawn wouldn't react too well to Henry pointing out those tears right now. Besides, it wasn't as if it really mattered whether or not Shawn felt like crying.

"Will Gus be all right?"

Henry wanted badly to give his son at least that little reassurance, but he didn't even know how serious Gus' injuries were. If Shawn was already reacting like this, then it must have been bad.

"I don't know, kid. But as soon as there's news, you'll be the first to know. I need to talk to your doctor, why don't you sit back and at least try to relax a little in the meantime?"

"Henry."

Henry turned around when he heard Lassiter's voice behind him. "Yes?"

Lassiter was peeking around the corner of the curtain. "One of our forensics guys is here."

"Why?"

"His fingernails. It seems like he scratched and clawed at those guys. We might get definite proof tying this attack to the previous murders."

Henry looked down at his son's hands. He knew that it was standard procedure nowadays to search for DNA evidence after an assault of any kind. But right now, he just couldn't tell how Shawn would react to that. Henry raised his hand, gesturing for Lassiter to wait a moment, then he turned back towards his son.

"Shawn? One of the CSU guys is here. They think there might be evidence…"

"Under my fingernails, I know. Lassiter told me. It's okay."

Henry didn't know what worried him more, the fact that his son was using Lassiter's real name, or the flat tone of his voice. He kept a close eye on Shawn as Lassiter led the man from CSU into the cubicle. Shawn barely reacted as the man wordlessly reached for his hand and started to scratch out his fingernails. In fact, Shawn wasn't even looking what the man was doing, and for somebody whose whole life revolved around watching and noticing things, that was a worrisome development.

All the while Henry tried to catch his son's eyes, tried to establish some form of communication between them even if it was nonverbal. But Shawn was staring ahead sightlessly, not showing any reaction when the man from CSU finished with one hand and repeated the procedure with Shawn's other.

It was over in less than three minutes, and as the CSU guy bagged and tagged the evidence he had collected, Lassiter stepped up to Henry.

"I need to get back to the crime scene. O'Hara should be here any moment now, she'll wait for news. I'm sure the Chief will drop by later as well. Call if there are any news."

Henry nodded. "Sure. Thanks for waiting with Shawn."

Lassiter nodded, then he vanished behind the curtain and out of sight. Henry turned back towards Shawn, who was still staring off into space. Tentatively, Henry put a hand on Shawn's leg to get his son's attention. And true enough, after a few seconds Shawn's glassy hazel eyes turned towards his father.

"How are you holding up?"

Henry felt like a broken record asking the same question over and over again, but truth was he didn't know how to deal with this. Shawn had been in hospital uncountable times before. Occasionally, Henry had been forced to drive both Shawn and Gus here because they had both managed to mess themselves up.

But it had been either small injuries – a bandage here, a cast there, sometimes a few stitches on either of them. Or it had been serious injuries on Shawn's part, injuries that had left both Henry and Gus sitting out there in the linoleum-covered waiting room until there were news.

This was new. This was a whole different story.

It had never been Gus before. Never once had Gus been seriously injured and Shawn had escaped pretty much unscathed. And if those racist bastards had beaten Gus right in front of Shawn's eyes, holding him back from any attempt to help his friend…

Henry didn't want to think about it. He especially didn't want to think about what would happen if Gus' injuries proved too severe. Those people had already beaten three men to death, and he didn't know how bad Gus' wounds were. But he knew how close Shawn and Gus were, and he knew what it would do to his son if Gus wouldn't pull through this.

Henry didn't want to even contemplate the possibility. Because if Gus didn't pull through this, Henry was sure about one thing – he wouldn't be able to catch his son if that happened.

But it was useless to start worrying about all that now. Not for as long as there wasn't an update on Gus' condition, anyway. Right now he needed to talk to Shawn's doctor, to figure out what exactly his son had been treated for. Henry doubted that Shawn would have to stay for the night, but he'd need to talk to the doctor to make sure.

And then they had to wait until somebody could tell them a little more about Gus' condition.

As Henry bent forward and pressed the call button beside Shawn's bed he had no idea what was going to happen next. But he knew for sure that this was going to be a long night.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	11. Fragmented

Here you go with the next chapter. We're going to stick with Henry for this one because I'm afraid Shawn isn't yet ready for an own point of view.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Fragmented**

Severe bruising, some superficial scratches to one of his arms, slight bruising to his throat and abdomen. That was what Shawn had been physically treated for. When the doctor finally arrived and the two took a few steps back from Shawn's bed to talk, Henry couldn't help but think that on any other day, Shawn wouldn't have seen a doctor for those injuries, never mind have gone to the hospital.

And up until this day, Henry hadn't known that there was a medical description for the fact that his son had screamed himself hoarse, but there was. Not that he could remember the term, but medical babble had never really stuck with him. There was the possibility that prolonged abuse could lead to an inflammation of Shawn's vocal cords, but one look at his son sitting on that hospital bed convinced Henry that Shawn probably wouldn't be talking much over the next couple of days, anyway.

But the physical injuries were only one thing. Henry had known that, he had known that the most problematic thing about his son's condition would be the shock, even though that was not what the doctor called it.

"What your son is experiencing is what we call an Acute Stress Disorder. It's not an unusual reaction to witnessing a traumatic event."

Yeah, _Acute Stress Disorder_, that had a nice ring to it. And probably also a long list of symptoms and possible ways of treatment.

"You mean he's in shock."

The doctor, a young man named Myers, shook his head. "That's what it's often called, but it's not really the same as a medical shock. It isn't even a medical condition, actually. It's a psychological reaction. Your son witnessed something traumatic, and he doesn't have a coping mechanism to deal with it."

"So he's shutting down."

Myers nodded. "In a way. This numbness is the most common reaction directly after the trauma occurred. There's no way of predicting how long this is going to last, that depends highly on the person and the situation. But in most cases it's a question of hours rather than days."

Henry nodded. That was a piece of good news, though he didn't doubt that it would be followed by some not so good news soon. That was how that kind of conversation with doctors always went down. First they fed you a few crumbs of good news to lure you into a false sense of security, and then they usually dropped the bombshell.

"So what are you going to do about it if it isn't a medical condition? I hope you're not thinking about putting him on meds. Shawn doesn't react too well to that."

Myers shook his head. "Acute Stress Disorder isn't usually treated with sedatives or other medication, not unless there's a high degree of agitation and the danger that the patient is going to hurt himself. As of now, we're not worried about that happening in case of your son. He was agitated earlier, but not to the degree that would require sedation."

"So what are you going to do?"

Myers shrugged somewhat helplessly. "Unfortunately there isn't much we can do from a medical perspective."

Henry laughed mirthlessly. "So you mean Shawn has to ride it out on his own."

"I didn't say that, Mr. Spencer. But since it isn't a medical condition, we can't treat it as one. Right now, the trauma is still acute. Shawn reacts by shutting it out to protect himself. In his current state he might also seem disoriented, or suffer from mood swings that aren't immediately comprehensible from an outsider's perspective. Other than providing psychological consult, there's not much that can be done for Shawn from the outside. Once the acute state of the trauma abates, he will start dealing with what happened. He might need psychological help during that process, but that really depends on the situation."

Henry ran a hand over his head. Good luck with trying to get Shawn talk to a psychologist. The kid didn't even go to a doctor if it wasn't absolutely necessary, and normally necessary meant high blood loss or broken bones. He certainly wouldn't talk to a psychologist just because it was the recommended treatment.

"So right now there's nothing that can be done?"

Myers shook his head. "Not by medication or treatment, no. The most important thing for Shawn right now is stability. He needs a steady contact person, and he needs the feeling that the people around him are there to help him deal with what happened. Be there when he wants to talk, don't be surprised when he's going through sudden mood swings. Once he starts dealing with what happened, he's probably going to suffer from nightmares and flashbacks that give him the feeling he's not really progressing any in dealing with the situation. You have to be prepared for that."

Myers pointed at the file on his clipboard. "From a medical perspective, nothing speaks against releasing Shawn. However, I wouldn't advise to leave him alone right now, especially not for the night. That's actually all that can be done, to give him the feeling that he's comfortable and safe."

Henry had to suppress a sad laugh. "He just watched his best friend being beaten right in front of his eyes. I don't think _comfortable_ is anywhere on his agenda in the near future."

Myers nodded thoughtfully. "That is another thing that's important to consider. I don't know anything about the case of your son's friend, but if his condition stabilizes quickly, it will certainly help Shawn. If it doesn't, or if it comes to the worst, I highly recommend that Shawn seeks psychological treatment. There is always the danger of possible long-term consequences. Just keep a close eye on him over the next couple of days."

Henry nodded. "Thank you, doctor."

"I'll send a nurse in with the paperwork." Myers cast another look at Shawn, who was still sitting on the ed and was staring down at his hands. "And I'm sure we still have a spare pair of scrubs lying around. His shirt was torn, and from all I know it ended up in an evidence bag. We deal with police investigations nearly every day, but I have to say that those cops were pretty thorough."

"Shawn is working for the police."

Myers nodded. "I see. If you have any questions, just ask a nurse to call me."

"Okay. Thanks."

Myers nodded again and vanished down the corridor. Henry turned back towards Shawn.

Whether or not it was the right medical term, to Henry Shawn seemed to be in shock. He kept on staring ahead numbly and showed absolutely no interest in what was going on around him. And for Shawn that wasn't normal. It was not normal at all. Shawn was all about watching and noticing things. It was a natural disposition. Shawn had always been curious, even before Henry had started to train Shawn's abilities. But right now a marching band could have paraded up and down the room and Shawn probably wouldn't even raise his head.

Henry sat down on the edge of the mattress again and put his hand back on Shawn's knee. "Shawn."

It took a few seconds, then Shawn looked up. "Yes?"

"They're going to release you."

Shawn nodded. "Okay. What about Gus?"

"There's still no news. We can go outside and wait for news as soon as all the paperwork is over and done with."

"Okay."

There were steps behind the curtain and Henry turned, half-expecting it to be the nurse with Shawn's release papers and something to wear. But it wasn't the nurse. Detective O'Hara hesitantly stepped around the curtain. Upon seeing Shawn, her eyes widened slightly and she quickly stepped up to the bed.

"Shawn!"

She stretched out a hand to touch Shawn's shoulder, and Henry saw something flash in Shawn's eyes a second before he flinched away from the touch. The young detective froze, her hand hovering a few inches from Shawn's bare shoulder, then she slowly withdrew it and put it behind her back, as if taking it out of sight would make the past seconds undone.

So now Henry knew he had been right about how Shawn would react to being touched in his current state. He didn't seem to mind his father's hand which was still lying on his knee, but not a touch to his bare shoulder, or even an embrace. No small wonder, considering that Shawn's most recent association to being touched on the arms was the memory of being held back while Gus was beaten.

O'Hara was shuffling her feet nervously, not quite knowing how to react to Shawn's obvious withdrawal.

"I'm sorry. I…I was still tied up in witness interviews. I came as fast as I could. How are you feeling?"

Shawn shrugged numbly. "I'm all right. It's Gus who's hurt."

"Are there any news?" She looked from Shawn to Henry, who shook his head. Her face fell slightly.

"Lassiter is working the scene in the office. All the CSU-guys are there. If there's any evidence that'll let us catch these guys, they're going to find it."

Shawn nodded wordlessly. O'Hara drew breath to say something else, but at that moment Shawn shifted slightly and she stopped mid-breath. Henry didn't need to follow her eyes to know that she had caught sight of the scar on Shawn's chest. For somebody who didn't know that it was there, the bruises would be the first thing to catch their eyes right now. But the way Shawn had shifted, he had unconsciously put it right into her line of vision. Shawn noticed it too, after she drew a breath but didn't say anything. Though it didn't show on Shawn's face, Henry knew that he was feeling uncomfortable. He had always been very self-conscious about the scar.

"Mr. Spencer?"

Again, Henry turned around, this time to find a nurse standing behind him, a folded blue shirt from a pair of scrubs in her hands with a couple of papers lying on top. Henry gratefully reached for the piece of clothing and handed it over to Shawn, who took it and quickly shrugged into it.

There was some paperwork to sign, but all in all it took less than ten minutes to get Shawn officially released from the hospital. Henry stayed at Shawn's side as he put on his shoes, but detective O'Hara vanished behind the curtain for the duration of the release procedures. Henry thought that she probably wanted to give Shawn some sense of privacy after that awkward moment earlier.

Though it was a little unnecessary. Shawn was signing release papers and putting on shoes, that was nothing that required privacy. Henry even doubted that Shawn recognized the gesture, or in fact noticed that the young woman had left. He was struggling hard enough to get his shoelaces tied. But after a few tries he had finally managed to tie is laces and got up from the bed.

"What about Gus?"

Henry drew a deep breath upon his son's hoarse question.

"He was in surgery when I arrived here. I don't know if there's news. His parents are over in the waiting room, why don't we go there and check?"

Shawn nodded and fell into step beside his father. The expression on Shawn's face was unreadable, but Henry couldn't help but feel a strange kind of anticipation at the thought of them meeting with Gus' parents right now.

The relationship between Shawn and especially Gus' mother was somewhat tense during the best of times. It hadn't always been that way, especially not when Shawn and Gus had still been little, but over the past years it had been. There were a lot of misconceptions in play there, on both sides. On Winnie's side, those misconceptions interestingly weren't only about Shawn, but also about her own son.

Henry was worried that all this was going to boil to the surface right now. Winnie and Bill had never been excited about Gus' second job with Shawn. And they had a tendency to baby Gus, despite his thirty years. The fact that Gus had gotten hurt because of a case he and Shawn had been working on would certainly not improve the tense relationship between Shawn and Gus' parents.

And if there was one thing Henry was sure of, then it was that Shawn was in no condition to stand any accusations. Right now he might still be in shock, but once that started to wear off Henry was sure that Shawn would start blaming himself. It was an unavoidable reaction after getting unscathed out of a situation in which his best friend had gotten hurt. Whether or not that feeling of guilt was justified didn't even matter. But knowing his son, that self-incrimination would be bad enough. Or maybe too much already. He didn't need anybody to add to that.

Winnie and Bill were still sitting in the same chairs in the ER-waiting room when Henry entered with Shawn at his side and O'Hara at their heels. Winnie was still holding the bunched up tissue in her hand, fiddling with the thin cellulose fabric so that it tore and ripped in places. Bill no longer had his hand against her back, but was sitting there with his elbows on his knees, staring down at the ugly linoleum floor.

Both of them looked up when they heard steps approach. Winnie immediately looked down again when she saw that it was not Gus' doctor with news. Bill's eyes stayed on them as Henry led Shawn past Gus' parents and directed him to a chair a few feet away from them. Shawn sat down, with Henry taking the seat between Shawn and Gus' parents to act as a buffer if necessary. After a few long moments, Shawn's eyes finally met Bill's.

"Mr. Guster."

"Shawn, how are you doing?"

Shawn shrugged. "I'm all right. Is there…I mean, have there been any news on Gus?"

Bill shook his head. "No. A few minutes ago a nurse dropped by, but all she had to say was that Burton is still in surgery. That was all she knew."

Shawn nodded. "Okay."

Henry could practically see how his son withdrew again after that short exchange. Shawn was slouched in his chair, with his hands lying limply in his lap and his eyes trained on the floor. The process of withdrawal was most obvious in Shawn's face, especially in the vacant expression in his eyes.

Shawn didn't intend to move from his position anytime soon, that much was clear, so Henry leaned back in his own chair and tried to find a position that he could stay in for the next couple of minutes. Or hours. But it wasn't easy. Whoever had designed these chairs hadn't had the comfort of its occupants in mind. Henry always wondered about that, especially since this was a hospital. But maybe they were trying to get new patients that way. If he was going to sit in this chair for a few hours straight, he'd definitely be in need of a pain shot for his back.

No matter how Henry shifted, he couldn't find a comfortable position on the chair. Eventually, he gave up every attempt at trying and simply sat back with the resolution to shift around as soon as his back would start hurting. He glanced at the clock on the waiting room wall.

When Lassiter had called him it had been a few minutes to eleven. Not it was nearly midnight. And Henry had the feeling that the night was far from over.

Shawn didn't seem to move. Aside from the regular rise and fall of his chest, he sat there like a statue, staring at the same spot for hours. Occasionally, O'Hara would leave the waiting room to make a phone call, then she'd come back and sit back down on Shawn's other side. Henry was acutely aware of Winnie's occasional sigh or sob, and of the whispered words that Bill directed at her. A few times, Bill got up and started pacing up and down the waiting room. Henry himself shifted to and fro every few minutes because his back was hurting.

Only Shawn was sitting there like a statue. If Henry didn't know better, his first guess would be that the doctors had sedated him after all. But Henry also didn't want to speak to Shawn right now. He didn't want to ask again how he was holding up just to get the same answer he had gotten the previous times. He didn't want to force Shawn out of whatever safe place in his mind he had withdrawn to. Not until they knew more about Gus' condition.

And he didn't want to draw that much attention to the fact that Shawn was sitting in the waiting room. He still wasn't entirely sure about Winnie's and Bill's feelings on that matter. Winnie's, mostly. Right now, worry for her son might be the overwhelming feeling, but Henry knew Gus' mother long enough to know that sooner or later she'd start analyzing Shawn's part in this whole story. She always did. And once that happened, things might get a little ugly.

Gosh, he needed a coffee. Intravenously, if possible.

But he couldn't leave. There was no way he was going to leave Shawn on his own right now. Not with Winnie sitting there, not with only detective O'Hara at his side. Not when there was a chance that the doctor would come and break the news about Gus' condition while Henry was away.

It was long past one in the morning when O'Hara got up from her chair again and turned towards Henry.

"I need to check in with Lassiter and the Chief. I'm going to grab some coffee on my way back, can I get you anything?"

Henry could have kissed her simply for the suggestion.

"Coffee would be great."

Winnie and Bill declined the offer and Shawn didn't seem to register that there was somebody talking at all, so O'Hara set off to make her calls and organize some hot and caffeinated beverage. What she brought along when she finally came back was not exactly hot. Quite on the contrary, actually, the coffee was cold. It didn't help any with the taste, either, but Henry clung to the hope that it was highly caffeinated. He definitely needed that.

Because the wait was endless. O'Hara stopped her phone calls after that first coffee run. Henry's guess was that she'd check in with Karen or Lassiter when there was news. But that didn't mean she remained seated. She and Bill alternated in pacing up and down the room. Winnie kept on maltreating her tissue. She was probably working her way through an entire box of them. Henry kept on shifting around to alleviate the pressure on the aching muscles in his back. Shawn kept on staring ahead.

At 3am O'Hara made another coffee run. The brew still wasn't hot, it still tasted awful, and after the second cup Henry doubted the degree of its caffeination. All it did was making his stomach churn, but then again the feeling of his stomach struggling whether or not to let that strange brew pass was keeping him awake. It wasn't caffeine, but it was keeping him awake. It served its purpose.

A few minutes to four, a nurse checked in with them to say that Gus was still in surgery and there were still no news about his condition. Winnie started to cry again silently after that, but Henry saw that there was also a small good part in those news.

Of course, if the surgery was taking so long it meant that Gus' injuries were very serious. That was the not good part. But the repeated checking in of the nurse also meant that Gus was still alive. That was a thought worth clinging to. His injuries were bad, but he was still alive. Back when Shawn had had his motorcycle accident, during those hours in this very waiting room, that thought had kept Henry from losing his mind.

What was the most horrible thing about the wait was the silence. Not that Henry was in a big mood for talking himself. But in the silence, every sound seemed to echo. Every footstep somewhere down the hall sounded as it was coming towards them. Every ringing of a phone made them all look up, every cough of clearing of the throat from the nurse on desk duty made them turn their heads towards her. But there were no news about Gus' condition.

Not until nearly half past five in the morning.

Somewhere, an elevator chimed, announcing its arrival. The elevator had chimed a few times before, the sound alone wasn't enough to make Henry turn his head. But the steps coming towards them were.

A moment later, the steps were getting louder as a middle-aged man in a white coat rounded the corner into the waiting room. Henry felt his throat tighten as he tried to read the news from the doctor's face. Because there was no doubt that the doctor was coming to tell them news about Gus. A few people had come in and out of the waiting room over the course of the night, but right now they were alone.

"Family of Burton Guster?"

From the corner of his eyes, Henry saw how Winnie reached for Bill's hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Yes, that's us. How is our son?"

The doctor looked their odd assembly of people up and down once, then he pulled up a chair and sat down so that he was facing them. Henry cast a short look at his son, but Shawn's face was just as impassive and withdrawn as it had been earlier. The only difference was that he was now looking at the doctor instead of down at the ground.

"I'm Oscar Hall, I'm the resident neurosurgeon here at the hospital."

Something clenched tight in Henry's stomach, threatening to bring up the pseudo-coffee from earlier. Neurosurgeon meant head injury. Head injury wasn't good. It absolutely wasn't good.

"How is our son doing?" Bill repeated.

Doctor Hall nodded and leaned his lower arms on his thighs. "Experience has taught me that parents don't want the sugar-coated version. Your son Burton has sustained some very severe injuries. There are three main worries we had in his treatment.

"One is the compound fracture to his leg. He has broken both, the tibia and the fibula of his right leg. The break of the fibula is an open fracture. The blood loss was minimal, but open fractures always carry a big risk of infection. We have your son on preventive antibiotics which are hopefully going to take care of that.

"The second serious injury are the two broken ribs on Burton's right side. One of the ribs caused some tissue damage, and blood seeped into the pleural cavity on his right side. We call that a hemothorax. The blood impaired the function of his right lung and hindered his breathing because the lung couldn't inflate properly. The paramedics drained the blood before your son was even put into the ambulance, but the bleeding didn't stop. We have it stilled now, but the lung tissue is bruised. We're monitoring his lung function closely to avoid any possible complications."

Henry took in those words. It sounded bad, but not life threatening so far. So far. But Dr. Hall had only covered two out of the three main worries he had mentioned. And none of the injuries so far required the involvement of a neurosurgeon, so Henry guessed that the doctor hadn't dropped the main bombshell yet.

And true enough, Dr. Hall sighed and rubbed a hand over his face before he continued. He seemed exhausted. No small wonder, at half past five in the morning.

"The most critical part of Burton's injuries is the head injury. He received two very hard blows to the head. The first by a small miracle didn't break his jaw, but the second blow did some very heavy damage."

Bill swallowed visibly, and Winnie was clenching his hand so tightly that it had to be painful.

"How heavy?"

"Burton received a skull fracture and a subsequent epidural hematoma. What happened is the following. The blow to the head broke the temporal bone." Hall circled his finger around an area above and slightly behind his right ear. "The fracture went through the arterial channel that's located in the bone and interrupted the middle meningeal artery. What happened is basically that the blood accumulated between the skull and the brain. Since the skull is firm, the blood puts pressure on the brain, and there's the danger that it crushes brain tissue.

"We performed a procedure called craniotomy to drain the blood and reduce the pressure."

"You cut open his skull." Bill's voice broke halfway through the sentence.

Hall nodded. "Yes, we opened Burton's skull. I know that it sounds incredibly dramatic, and surgical procedures to the head are not to be taken lightly, but we didn't operate on his brain. That's a huge difference. We drained the blood to alleviate the pressure on his brain and to repair the damage to the blood vessel."

Bill drew a deep breath. "What's his…I mean, is he going to be all right?"

Dr. Hall leaned back in his chair and looked Gus' father straight in the eye. "At this point, I cannot tell you anything with any certainty. Physically, Burton's condition is stable right now. But with Traumatic Brain Injuries, there is always the possibility of brain damage."

Winnie drew in a sobbing breath, and Bill immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer against his side. Henry cast another worried look at his son, but Shawn was still staring ahead at Dr. Hall without moving just a single facial muscle. He had no idea whether the doctor's words were even getting through to Shawn right now.

"Mr. and Mrs. Guster, I know that this sounds huge right now. But that there's possibility of brain damage doesn't mean that there has to be brain damage. It's my duty to inform you of the possibility, but I'm confident that we reduced the pressure on your son's brain before critical damage occurred. But with the human brain, there are no absolute certainties.

"Once Gus' condition stabilizes enough to let him wake up, we will know more. We're monitoring his brainwave activities for any abnormalities."

"Wait, wait, wait." Bill let go off his wife's shoulders and leaned forward slightly. "What do you mean, once his condition stabilizes enough to _let him_ wake up? Why don't you let him wake up as soon as the sedatives from the surgery wear off?"

"Because it wouldn't be wise to do so right now. Injuries as serious as your son's are a huge stress for the body. The biggest factor is the pain. If your son was awake now, he'd be in a lot of pain. For example the pain from his broken ribs would keep him from breathing deeply and he'd not get as much oxygen as he'd normally get.

"It's helping his son's healing process if he is kept on a long-term narcosis. It keeps the pain at bay and reduces the body's stress levels. And for the first days after the initial story, there is always the danger of the brain swelling, a secondary injury that would cause even more damage than the primary injury. By keeping Burton on medication, we're trying to prevent that. We keep the brain resting while monitoring its functions closely. All the medication he receives is constantly monitored and adjusted to his needs. I know that it sounds bad, but right now it's really the best to make sure that Burton comes out of this as quickly and as well as possible."

Henry swallowed hard as his brain connected the dots of what Dr. Hall had just said. He hadn't said the word that was flashing through his mind, but he hadn't needed to. His description had been enough. And obviously, Henry was not the only one who made the connection.

"Are you saying that he's in a coma?"

Dr. Hall turned his head towards Shawn upon hearing the hoarse question.

"Medically induced, yes. There's a difference."

But Shawn only shook his head. "It's still a coma right? He's in a coma because he has a broken skull. And a bleeding artery in his head. And possible brain damage. You had to cut open his damn skull so that his brain wouldn't get crushed, and now you're telling me that a coma is nothing to worry about?"

Henry could only watch in astonishment as Shawn practically jumped off his chair and stormed out of the waiting room. He stared after him in stunned shock for a moment, then he got up and slowly ran a hand over his head. At least that answered the question whether or not Shawn had actually heard what the doctor had been saying.

Feeling four pairs of eyes on him, Henry sighed. "I'd better go and look where he went."

He didn't look back as he left the waiting room and went to see where Shawn had run off to.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks.


	12. Friends and Family

And here you go with the next chapter. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 11 – Friends and Family, and why those two sometimes don't mix**

Shawn didn't know why he was running. Or where. He only knew that he needed to get out of that waiting room. He needed to get away from that doctor trying to tell them that it was actually a good thing that Gus was in a coma. He needed to get away from Juliet's constant worried looks. He needed to get away from his father's silent presence. And he needed to get away from Gus' parents.

Gus was in a coma.

His best friend was in a frigging coma, and it was his fault.

Those racist assholes had beaten Gus into a coma because Shawn had been investigating their case. He had dragged Gus into this. He had been the one who had called Gus out of work to go to that first crime scene. He had involved himself in that case without a second thought, even after their office had been broken into. He hadn't kept Gus out of this, had not taken those guys seriously enough, and now Gus was paying the prize.

And once the others got over the shock about Gus' condition, they'd start to figure it out.

It wouldn't take long for them to figure out that all this had happened to Gus because of Shawn. And he would not stay around and wait for that to happen.

Juliet would be looking at him with that sad expression on her face.

Mr. Guster wouldn't be able to meet his eyes.

Mrs. Guster would blame him.

And his father would simply say _I told you so_.

And he had. That was probably the worst thing of them all. His father had told him so, his father had tried to warn him to keep Gus out of this case, but as usual Shawn hadn't listened to him. And now his father had been ultimately proven right.

Shawn couldn't stay around and wait for the hammer to fall. He needed to get out of here.

Finally, after storming blindly down a few empty corridors, Shawn found a door marked as an exit. It wasn't the front door, this wasn't the main entrance hall of the hospital, but it was a door outside. And outside there'd be fresh air for him to breathe. Maybe then his head would finally stop spinning.

Shawn quickly pushed the door open and stepped outside. The door was leading him to a small utility lot on the back side of the hospital. There were a number of dumpsters standing between the hospital building and the chain link fence that separated the back yard from the parking lot behind the hospital.

It were just your ordinary dumpsters, for paper, glass and normal everyday waste. Nothing marked _biohazard_, no surgical waste bins standing around. Shawn didn't even want to think about what this small lot was used for, but his brain didn't ask for his opinion. On auto-pilot, it presented Shawn with the deduction that this was where the waste from the hospital cafeteria most probably ended up.

Shawn stepped down the two narrow concrete steps and stood in the middle of the lot. His hands went up to the sides of his head and he drew a deep breath of the crisp early morning air. It felt cold in his lungs and smelled slightly of rotten vegetables.

Behind him, the door opened again.

"Shawn?"

Shawn remained standing in the middle of the small lot with his back to the door. He didn't want to talk to his father right now. He had hoped that he'd have a little more time to prepare himself for that particular conversation. But now his father had even followed him through half the hospital just to throw into Shawn's face that he had warned him about this. It seemed like his father needed to get it off his chest really urgently. But then again, he had already held it back for hours.

It was a testament to the fact that if he wanted to, his father could show some restraint in his desire to lecture. For nearly six hours he had held this one back, that had to be a record.

There were steps on the concrete as his father stepped up beside him.

Inwardly, Shawn tried to brace himself for the lecture. But Shawn drew one deep breath, then released it again. When the next anticipated breath had come and gone, Shawn slowly turned his head to look at his father. Henry was silently standing beside him, hands stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, staring ahead as if the dumpsters in front of them were particularly interesting specimen. Seeing Shawn's eyes on him, Henry looked back at his son.

So there was no lecture forthcoming at this moment. Shawn only hoped his father wasn't going all soft and was about to throw some useless platitude his way. That would be even worse than yelling. But his father only looked at him for another few seconds.

"Ready to go back inside?" He finally asked. "It's not the nicest ambience in there either, but at least it doesn't smell like rotten salad."

Shawn crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Out here at least nobody tries to tell me what a good thing it is that Gus is in a coma."

"I'm sure that Dr. Hall was giving more of an explanation after you stormed off."

"It's a coma, Dad!" Shawn threw his hands in the air helplessly. "A coma! Because an artery in Gus' head was bleeding. I don't know what kind of an explanation would make that sound any better."

Henry shrugged. "Nobody said that Gus was going to walk out of here by tomorrow morning. But what I heard was that they keep him unconscious because it's better for him right now. And that they can let him wake up once he's better."

"Yeah, with possible brain damage."

Henry shook his head. "Shawn, whether or not you're going all _glass half empty_, and whether or not you run away like a little kid, it's not going to change anything. Gus was hurt, and his injuries are serious. Those are the facts. And now we deal with them."

Shawn laughed mirthlessly. "Oh of course it's that easy. Thanks for enlightening me, Dad."

"I didn't say it was easy. In fact, I guess that it's damn hard to face the fact that your best friend was nearly beaten to death right in front of your eyes. But you're certainly not going to make it any easier by running away and trying to hide from it all."

Shawn sighed and ran his hands through his hair, wincing slightly as he remembered the feeling of the tight grip on his hair, holding his head up, forcing him to watch…

He let his arm drop back to his side and shook his head as if that could chase the memories away. _And now we deal with it_. Yeah right, it was so easy. Form his Dad's perspective everything was always so easy. Black and white. Right or wrong. He just never understood that not the whole world was playing by Henry Spencer's rules. But of course if he told him that now, he'd only have a discussion on his hands. Or a fight. And Shawn didn't have the strength for either right now.

So he wordlessly turned around and went back up the stairs into the hospital. Shawn had absolutely no idea for how long they had been gone. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, though, because Dr. Hall was still in the waiting room together with Gus' parents and Juliet.

They were no longer sitting in those hideous plastic chairs. They were standing near the nurse's desk, Juliet a few feet away from the Gusters and the doctor. Mr. Guster had an arm around his wife, who was sobbing into yet another tissue.

Shawn's steps faltered a little as he re-entered the waiting room and approached Gus' parents. He was actually glad when his father walked past him and towards the small group near the nurse's desk. Shawn felt a little more comfortable with his father standing between him and the Gusters. Not because he expected his father to jump in should anybody start to blame him. But standing behind his father's bulk, there was a chance that he'd not be so easily noticed.

Dr. Hall looked up as Henry and Shawn stepped up to them, but after a short glimpse at them he continued his conversation with the Gusters as if they hadn't just left and returned.

"It's most important for you son that he has enough rest now. I know that you want to stay with him for as long as possible, but I'm afraid we have to enforce strict visiting hours in the ICU. You can go up and see him now for a few minutes, but he needs a lot of rest after the surgery. Come back in the afternoon, then we can establish a rhythm in the visits. Half an hour in the mornings and an hour in the afternoon, that's the official visiting hours. We're trying to keep Burton's narcosis weaker than that of a standard surgery to keep the strain on his body as reduced as possible. At times, we're going to let him wake up for a few minutes so that his body stays used to the normal day and night rhythm.

"But even when he's under medication it's very likely that he's aware of his surroundings. He probably won't remember any specifics once he wakes up, but it won't hurt to let him know that you're there. Talk to him, and don't let all the machinery scare you off. Just talk to him as if he was awake, and avoid letting him feel any stress. I'll show you up to the ICU now."

He stretched out his arm towards the elevator in a gesture for the Gusters to follow.

And only the Gusters.

"Just the closest family members for now." Hall said with an apologetic smile. "Burton needs a lot of rest."

Shawn saw his father nod, but all he could do was stand and stare as Gus' parents and the doctor went down the corridor towards the elevator.

Just the _closest family members_.

Just the _family members_.

Who was he, the frigging cable repairman?

He spent more time with Gus most days than his parents did in an entire week. He and Gus had been friends for over twenty years now, didn't that make him family? So what if he didn't have any biological relation to him and had missed the first six years of Gus' life? That was all Gus' parents had over him, all that set them apart.

But they were allowed to see Gus, and Shawn wasn't.

The last time he had seen Gus had been when the paramedics had wheeled his lifeless body into the ambulance. Directly after they had jammed a huge needle between his ribs and had drained about a litre of blood out of his chest.

He needed to see Gus now, didn't they understand that? Didn't they understand that coma or not, he needed to replace that image of a lifeless Gus being pushed into the ambulance with something else? With something more positive, more encouraging? Even if only a little, a slight degree more positive and encouraging than seeing Gus on that gurney?

But the elevator door closed mercilessly behind Hall and the Gusters and left Shawn in the waiting room, together with Juliet and his father. The three people who weren't closest family members.

Shawn stood there, awkwardly clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides until Juliet finally broke the unnerving silence.

"I need to check in with the Chief, and then I need to get some rest. Let me know if there's any news, okay?"

Shawn only nodded, and Juliet flashed him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and that was meant to be encouraging but in fact looked only helpless. Then she turned around and left the waiting room in the direction of the front entrance. Shawn looked after her, his mind totally blank.

What now?

Gus' parents were up there with him, and what was he supposed to do now?

Stay here and wait until somebody realized that he also needed to see Gus right now?

Go back home and pretend that all this hadn't happened?

Maybe he should just sit down for a moment. Or for as long as it would take.

But as he turned around towards the row of chairs, he suddenly found his father standing in his way.

"Come on kid, let's go."

Shawn very nearly laughed. "Go where?"

"Home. You need to sleep."

Shawn shook his head. "No, I need to see Gus. But obviously, nobody else seems to understand that."

"I do."

Henry sighed and stuffed his hands deeply into his pockets. "But you heard what the doctor said. Only his parents for now. I'm sure that when we come back later they'll let you see Gus. But he just came out of surgery. Give him some time to settle."

"He's in a coma, Dad. I don't know how long it's supposed to take for him to settle if he's fast asleep anyway."

Shawn gestured helplessly into the direction of the elevator where Gus' parents had vanished with Dr. Hall.

"Shawn, that's not making things better. You can moan and bitch about it for all that you like, but they're not going to let you see Gus right now. You've been up all night, you're exhausted. We're going to my place now, then you'll get some sleep, eat something, and then we'll come back here."

"I can't sleep now, anyway. I'm just going to wait here."

"You're damn well going to try to sleep. At home. In a bed. I'm on doctor's orders not to leave you alone for a while, and you can bet your ass that I'm not going to sit in one of those torture devices they call chairs for a minute longer."

"Don't talk to me like I'm five years old!"

Shawn couldn't help it, his anger was rising. Why didn't anybody understand what was going on inside of him right now? But if there was ever anything Henry Spencer was a master of, then it was matching his son's moods.

"Then don't act like a five year old, Shawn. Stay here and sulk for all you like but don't think for one moment that you're going to be any help to Gus if you drop from exhaustion. So get your butt moving and go to the car."

Shawn wanted to yell at his father. He wanted to yell at him and get rid of all the frustration that had built up inside of him over the past hours.

But what good would it do?

As relieving as a good shouting match with his father normally was, right now Shawn just couldn't do it. He didn't have the strength to do it, and he didn't want to do it.

He only wanted to see Gus.

And since that was not going to happen anytime soon, the only real choice he had was to relent. If he played along with his father's stupid orders right now, agreed to get some sleep and ate something, he'd be back here much sooner than if he started arguing right now. At least he hoped so.

It was admitting defeat to turn around now and follow his father out the waiting room, but Shawn was too exhausted to care. It took a seemingly superhuman amount of strength to lift his feet enough so that he didn't drag them over the grey linoleum. Around them, the hospital was waking up with the arrival of a new shift of doctors and nurses, the cleaning crews pushing their carts around and the first bunch of early-morning patients arriving for the clinic.

But it was as if Shawn and Henry were walking in a bubble that set them apart from all the others. It felt as if their presence radiated the long sleepless hours of the night and the bad news the night had ended with. Nurses and doctors who were smiling and calling out greetings to others let their smiles falter slightly when Shawn and Henry went past, as if the dark cloud surrounding them was contagious.

Shawn was glad when they finally stepped out the sliding glass doors. At least now he could raise his head without having to see others watching him, their curiosity about what tragedy had brought him to this hospital obvious on their faces.

He slid into the passenger seat of his father's truck as soon as Henry unlocked it, buckled his seat belt and crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyes staring sightlessly out the window.

He only hoped his father didn't want to talk.

He didn't want to talk right now.

He was granted the small mercy and the drive passed in silence. Shawn stared out into the dim morning light, watching the streets wake up while they drove through them. Papers were delivered, the streetlights were turned off as the sun rose, the first diners and coffee shops opened their doors to early morning clients.

But his father's street was blissfully quiet and asleep.

Henry parked the truck in the driveway, and Shawn quickly climbed out and waited for his Dad to unlock the back door.

Only when the door was firmly closed behind them did Henry speak again.

"Go upstairs and try to get some rest."

Shawn wanted to argue. It was his natural reflex to argue with his Dad, especially with his father telling him to go to bed as if he was still a little kid. But right now he couldn't be bothered. He'd lose this argument anyway. So instead he'd just go upstairs into his old bedroom and close the door. Whether or not he actually slept wasn't his father's concern.

Shawn didn't stay in his old bedroom very often nowadays. He had taken most of his stuff with him when he had moved out of his father's house before he had even finished high school. But for some reason his father had left the room the way it was, hadn't cleared out the remaining clutter and turned the room into something else. It meant that Shawn always had a bed at his father's house when he needed it, but it also meant that there was always an air of un-inhabitation surrounding the room. It was dusted and aired, and his Dad made up the bed in regular intervals, but it was painfully obvious that nobody lived there.

Shawn closed the door behind himself and took off his jacket as his eyes roamed around the room.

He had no idea what made his father believe he'd be able to sleep right now. Gus was in a coma and he was supposed to lie down and get comfortable like nothing at all had happened?

Fat chance of that happening.

Kicking off his shoes, Shawn lay down on the bed, crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

The mere thought that he'd be able to sleep after everything that had happened over the past hours was ridiculous. Especially that his father expected him to sleep in a room where he and Gus had spent uncountable sleepovers during their childhood.

Not going to happen.

He'd stay here for an hour of silent brooding, then he'd go down and tell his father that he had slept. The sooner he got back to the hospital, the better.

He closed his eyes.

When Shawn opened his eyes again, the room was noticeably brighter. Shawn blinked a few times, trying to piece together what had happened. He didn't immediately remember how he had ended up in his old childhood bedroom, but he had woken up with the feeling that he hadn't meant to fall asleep in the first place.

Groggily, Shawn sat up in bed and tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. The blanket covering his legs and torso got in the way, and with a frown Shawn threw it back and sat up. He didn't remember pulling a blanket over himself earlier. All the other memories came back willingly enough, the attack at the office, the long night in the hospital. But not the memory of pulling up a blanket over himself.

Not that he spent much thought on the blanket matter after he remembered what had happened at the hospital.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep so that he could get back to Gus into the hospital. But somehow he had fallen asleep. His eyes had dropped closed. And now it was a few minutes past eleven, and he had lost over five hours.

Shawn quickly scrambled out of bed and put on his shoes again. When he opened his bedroom door, the smell of freshly brewing coffee drifted into his nostrils. His stomach gave a loud grumble, even though he didn't want to eat. Eating would only cost him time. He'd have plenty of time to eat once he had finally seen Gus.

When he came down into the kitchen, his father was sitting at the table, reading the paper with a cup of coffee in his hand. He didn't know if his Dad had gone to sleep as well, but he was wearing different clothes which suggested that he had at least taken a shower. He looked up as Shawn's steps came down the stairs.

"Morning."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Shawn was surprised at the hoarse sound of his voice, but his Dad barely flinched.

He wordlessly got up from his chair and went over towards the fridge. "You needed sleep. When I looked in on you earlier, you were out like a light."

"Can we go back to the hospital now?"

Henry pulled a bunch of things out of the fridge, put them on the counter and then turned towards Shawn with an eyebrow raised.

"No."

"Dad, I don't want to end up fighting with you about this. I want to go to the hospital, and if you don't want to drive me then I'll just take a cab."

Henry only shook his head. "You heard what the doctor said. There's no use in going to the hospital before this afternoon. They're not going to let you see Gus before that. And I won't let you leave this house before you've eaten something."

Shawn opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off when his father put a glass down in front of him. He couldn't believe his eyes.

"_Milk_ Dad? I hate to break it to you, but it's been about twenty years since I last drank milk for breakfast."

Henry turned back towards the counter and started to crack eggs into a bowl.

"I'm not going to give you coffee, or anything else with caffeine in it. I ran out of juice. So you're going to drink milk."

Shawn stared at the back of his father's head for a few moments, trying to gauge whether his old man was joking or not. But then again, Henry Spencer had never been known for his humorous streak, so he was serious about this.

With a sigh, he picked up the glass and drank a bit of the milk. He had already admitted defeat more than once over the past hours, it didn't matter anymore.

A few minutes later, his father put a plate with toast and scrambled eggs down in front of him, with the explicit order to eat it all. Again, Shawn relented. While he ate, Henry sat back down and took a sip of his coffee.

"Karen called a while ago. They're going to need your statement. I told her we'd drop by the station after we come back from the hospital."

Shawn forked up another piece of scrambled egg and put it in his mouth. "Okay."

He didn't really look forward to that. Giving his statement meant going over the events of the past night in detail, and he didn't want that. He absolutely didn't want that.

When he was done with his eggs and toast, Shawn pushed his plate away. Henry picked it up and put it down into the sink.

"Can we go to the hospital now?"

Henry turned around with a sigh. "There's still plenty of time before they'll even consider letting you into the ICU."

"Dad."

Henry nodded. "All right. There are some spare clothes in your wardrobe that you left the last time you were here. Take a shower, get dressed, then I'll drive you to the hospital."

Shawn pushed his chair back and was up the stairs in a flash.

It was the fastest shower he had taken in his entire life. It was a small miracle that he was getting wet in the first place, but ten minute later he was back down in the kitchen, wearing fresh clothes and with his hair scantily rubbed dry.

It seemed that his father was deliberately taking his time in putting on his shoes and getting his jacket, but no amount of sighing and impatient foot-tapping could make him move any faster. In fact, everything that it achieved was earning Shawn some impatient glares from his father before he was finally all dressed up and ready to leave.

They didn't speak as Henry drove the reverse route that they had taken this morning. Or at least, Shawn thought they'd manage to spend the drive in silence until they were two blocks away from their goal.

"How are you holding up?"

That question again. The question that Shawn didn't know how to answer. The question that absolutely didn't matter right now.

"I'll be better if I finally get to see Gus. They're not going to pull that parents-only-bullshit with me again."

His Dad harrumphed, but didn't say anything. They continued the rest of their way in silence, and as soon as his father had pulled the truck into a parking space, Shawn was out of the truck and on his way to the front entrance. He didn't know where exactly Gus had been brought, but he was in the ICU. And according to the orientation signs, the ICU was up on the fourth floor.

His Dad caught up with him in front of the elevator. They wordlessly got into the cart when it arrived and rode up to the ICU.

The elevator doors opened into a large waiting room. More of the same back-breaking plastic chairs lined the walls, some tables with year-old magazines were standing around, and two vending machines in one corner offered the ultimate choice between coffee or candy bars.

A large double glass door lead to the ICU, and a sign at eye level stated firmly that entry was only possible at certain times, after previous consultation with the attending doctor, and after ringing the buzzer beside the door.

Gus' parents were sitting in two of the chairs in the corner, and before Shawn had the chance to say anything or prepare himself, his father was already walking towards them.

Shawn followed more hesitantly, still unsure how to confront Gus' parents. Both were wearing different clothes than the previous night and had obviously been at home as well, but Shawn didn't think either of them had gotten much sleep.

Mr. Guster looked tired, very tired, and he had foregone shaving this morning.

And Mrs. Guster had huge, extremely dark shadows under her eyes. She wore no makeup, had her hair bound back in a simple ponytail, and her face looked so much older than it had been the previous night.

Shawn was scared what that meant. Gus' parents had been allowed to see Gus earlier, and judged by the way they looked, it hadn't been a reassuring experience.

"Winnie. Bill."

Gus' parents looked up as Henry approached them, and Shawn was not left with another choice but to join the three.

"Morning Henry. Shawn."

Mr. Guster's voice was slightly rough, as if he hadn't used it in a long while.

"How is Gus?"

"They say his condition is stable right now. They didn't let us see him for long earlier, just a few minutes. It's…it was hard."

Shawn watched in morbid fascination as Mr. Guster lost control for a moment, and his mask slipped to show how he was really feeling. For all the years he had known the man, he had seen him in many moods. But he had never seen him show fear and desperation this openly. It was all he needed to know about how bad Gus was really doing.

His own father only nodded at Mr. Guster's words and pretended that he hadn't noticed the slip of emotions. Though Shawn was sure that he had.

"Billy is coming later tonight. We called him earlier, he'll take the first flight he can get."

For a moment, Shawn was surprised. To be honest, he hadn't even thought about Billy. But of course the Gusters would call him. And of course he'd come once he heard what had happened.

But the thought that Gus' parents had called his brother to fly in all the way from Connecticut made this whole situation so much worse. How bad was Gus really doing if his parents wanted the entire family here?

Mr. Guster sighed and pushed an empty plastic cup over the table with his finger. "They said we could see Gus again in a little while. We've not been here for long, either."

Again, Henry nodded. "That's why we're here. Shawn was hoping that he could visit Gus for a little while."

"No."

All three turned their heads at that one harsh word from Mrs. Guster. Mr. Guster put a hand on her arm, but she shook it off before he could say anything.

"Winnie…"

"No." She repeated, cutting Henry off. "He's not going to get near Burton."

Shawn felt his heart beating fast in his chest. He had known that this would come. He couldn't say that he hadn't. Of course Mrs. Guster was blaming him for what happened. How could she not? He knew she was right. It was his fault that Gus was in a coma right now, there was no discussion about it.

Gus' mother had every right to blame him. She had every right to hate him for involving Gus in this case, because he could have seen this coming. He should have seen this coming. He should have done something to stop it, or he should have found a way to save Gus from the beating.

It was him those guys had been after. It was him those guys were worried about. The warning had been meant for him, so he should have been the one to take the beating. If anybody should have ended up in a coma, by all rights it should have been him.

So Gus' mother had every right to be furious at him.

But Shawn had hoped that despite that, she'd still understand that he needed to see his friend right now. He needed to see Gus, alive and breathing, no matter how many machines he was hooked up to. Shawn needed to see Gus to reassure himself that he was still alive, and he needed to see Gus to get all those other images out of his head.

Mrs. Guster could hate him for the rest of her life, Shawn wouldn't begrudge her for that. But he needed to see Gus.

And now she wouldn't let him see him. Her absolute refusal had Shawn far too stunned to say anything. He wanted to shrink back into the wall and make himself invisible, but there was no evading the glare that Winnie Guster was levelling at him.

He barely noticed how his father took half a step in front of him.

"Winnie, I don't think…"

"No." Again, Mrs. Guster cut Henry off. "We're only allowed to see Gus for one hour. I'm not going to stay out here to let Shawn go see him instead of me. Especially not since it's his fault that Gus is here in the first place."

Suddenly, the air felt too thick to breathe. How could it be that suddenly all the oxygen had vanished from the room?

He wasn't going to see Gus, that much was obvious. For as long as Gus was in the ICU, Mrs. Guster was not going to let him through to see his friend.

Maybe that was his punishment for allowing Gus to get hurt. Maybe he had to live with the image of Gus lying on the office floor, blood all over him as the paramedics jammed that huge needle between his ribs to drain the blood. Maybe he'd have to live with the image of Gus' head snapping back as that kick hit him straight in the face.

Maybe that was his punishment.

And maybe it was better for Gus if he wasn't around.

It hadn't helped Gus much the last time he had been around. He hadn't been able to stop all this from happening. He had let Gus get hurt in the first place.

Mrs. Guster was still glaring at him, and Shawn did the only thing he could think of. For the second time in less than twelve hours, he spun around on his heel and fled from the room.

...TBC...

_Thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think._


	13. Whatever you're going through

Again, sorry for the delay. Really, don't hesitate to kick me in the posterior if I forget an update. It's so embarassing, and I'm awfully sorry. Hope this chapter can make up a little for that.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 12 – Whatever you're going through, it's no excuse**

Henry had expected it to happen. A lot sooner, actually. Personally, he'd have preferred Winnie to have her outbreak while Shawn had still been too numb to take it in as clearly as he had just now.

It wasn't that he couldn't sympathize with her, because he could. He knew what Gus' parents had to be feeling like right now.

And he didn't think that Winnie meant every word she had said.

Henry knew from firsthand experience that when your child was inches away from dying, you were glad for every scapegoat. Back when he had been in Winnie's position, he had directed his anger at Shawn's bike. The bike had been what had caused the accident, it had been the reason why Shawn had been seriously hurt. Winnie didn't have an inanimate object to blame like Henry had had. The difference was that all Henry's accusations and hatred hadn't hurt the bike. Not even that one well-placed kick hadn't really hurt or damaged the bike.

But Winnie's words had hurt Shawn. It had been plainly visible on his face as he had turned around and stormed out the door that led to the staircase. And Henry didn't think Shawn could deal with that very well right now.

He looked back at Winnie, who was still staring at the spot Shawn had stood in moments ago, as if she could still see some time-delayed reflection of him.

"Winnie," he said, surprised when she abruptly turned her furious glare on him.

But he didn't back down. Henry had been married to the master of angry glares. He had had more angry and furious glares directed his way than he could count. And it took a lot more than what Winnie Guster was able to muster up to make him back down.

"I don't think that was necessary."

Winnie shook her head. "Stop it, Henry. You won't make me change my mind. Shawn has caused enough damage already, I won't let him go anywhere near my son again."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Somebody must have forgotten to tell me that it was Shawn who beat Gus into a coma."

Winnie's eyes widened. "How dare you…"

"I dare because I know what's going on inside of my son right now, Winnie. Shawn is blaming himself enough for all this, he doesn't need you to add any blame to that. Especially not since what happened is not Shawn's fault."

"Oh no? It's not Shawn's fault? Then tell me whose fault it is that my son got involved with those racists in the first place? Whose fault is it that the whole city knew about their involvement because he gave an interview on TV?"

"It wasn't Shawn's fault that this reporter ambushed him. He certainly didn't want to be all over the news. And that's not what this is all about! Don't you think that Gus knew very well what he let himself in for?"

"Gus would have never willingly put himself in such a danger. It's always Shawn's crazy ideas and idiotic schemes that cause this kind of trouble!"

Henry shook his head. "So what? You think Shawn decided to work this case and didn't tell Gus what it was about? Come on Winnie, give your son some credit."

"What, so you're suggesting that Gus knew this was going to happen? That it was his own fault?"

"No. But Gus knew very well what he let himself in for. Don't you think that the first thing I did when I got to know what case Shawn was working on was to tell him to stay out of it?"

"And he didn't, did he?" Winnie advanced on Henry, index finger outstretched and pointing at him.

"Shawn didn't stay out of the case despite your warning. He threw caution in the wind, he threw all good reason overboard and he worked this case. And now my son has been nearly beaten to death because of it."

Henry knew that it was useless to try and talk reason into Winnie right now. But still he tried. He had to try.

"I talked to Gus about this, Winnie. The day their office was broken into, I talked to Gus about it."

"Somebody broke into the office?"

Henry sighed. He understood why Gus hadn't told his parents what they were working on, or what had happened during the case. But it didn't make things easier right now.

"Yes, the office got broken into, ransacked and spray painted with racist crap. And now you should maybe ask yourself why Gus didn't tell you about it. But the day it happened, I talked to Gus, and I told him to stay out of the case."

Now it was Winnie's turn to shake her head, but Henry didn't give her time to interrupt him.

"I talked to Gus alone, and I told him that I thought it was better if he and Shawn dropped the case. And Gus said that he wanted to work this case. Gus didn't want to treat this case different from any other case they worked on. He doesn't let Shawn drag him into things blindly, Winnie. They're no longer ten years old. You're underestimating how much Gus is aware of the dangers of what they're doing. Or how much he's involved in the decisions. He's thirty years old, for crying out loud! Stop babying him, and stop placing all the blame for everything that happens to Gus on Shawn! Gus is old enough to make his own decisions."

Winnie was standing only inches away from Henry right now, her outstretched index finger still pointed at his chin. Bill was standing a little to the side, helplessly looking at his wife as if he could make his wife back down by staring at her pleadingly. But over thirty years of marriage didn't seem to have evolved his ability at communicating with his wife telepathically.

Winnie probably wasn't even aware that her husband was standing beside her.

"Believe whatever you want to believe, Henry. But what happened most certainly wasn't Gus' fault."

"No, but neither was it Shawn's!"

Henry threw his hands in the air in frustration and turned away from Winnie. This was not going to help. With a sigh, he ran his hands over his face.

"Listen Winnie. I know that you're angry because this happened to Gus, and that you want to protect him from further harm because you couldn't protect him from this. But you don't need to protect him from Shawn. Just ask yourself what Gus would want."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's Gus we should think of now, isn't it? So maybe you should consider what he wants. Don't you think he'd want Shawn to visit him?"

Winnie crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Right now Gus needs his rest."

"No, right now he needs the people close to him around. I know you don't approve of Shawn, but this isn't about you. It's about Gus, and whether you like it or not, Gus needs Shawn around right now just as much as he needs you. And Shawn needs to see Gus. He watched the whole thing happen Winnie. He was there when those people beat Gus up. The kid is barely hanging on right now, he doesn't need a discussion about whether or not he's allowed to see Gus. They're practically brothers, Winnie."

Winnie uncrossed her arms and let them drop loosely by her sides. "I want what's best for my son right now."

Henry nodded. "I know Winnie. So do I. So how about we do what's best for both our sons and let Shawn in to see Gus for a few minutes."

Bill put a hand on his wife's arm. "I think Henry is right, Winnie."

Winnie bit her lip and shook her head, but after a few moments she nodded. "All right. I guess Shawn can go in and see Gus for a few minutes."

Henry nodded. "Thanks Winnie."

At that moment, the double glass doors to the ICU opened and a nurse came out. "Mr. and Mrs. Guster? You can come in now. I'll help you gown up."

"I'll find Shawn and bring him up here."

Bill nodded, then he put an arm around his wife's shoulders and they followed the nurse through the door into the ICU. Henry watched the door close behind them, then he turned towards the staircase. Now he only needed to find Shawn.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

This wasn't Gus.

Shawn didn't know what had happened between his father and the Gusters that had made Mrs. Guster change her mind, but something had. There was no other explanation as to why Mrs. Guster had reconsidered her decision and had allowed Shawn fifteen of the precious sixty afternoon minutes with his friend.

All he knew was that his father had found him sitting on the stairs one floor down from the ICU and had told him to come upstairs again. And forty minutes later the Gusters had come out of the ICU and Shawn had been allowed to go in. Mr. Guster had nodded at him as they had passed, but Mrs. Guster hadn't even met his eyes.

A nurse had helped Shawn shrug into one of those green sterile gowns, then she had led him over to the small cubicle where Gus' bed was.

Only that this wasn't Gus.

For a long moment, Shawn just stood and stared down at the body on the bed. There was a minute resemblance to his friend, but still it was hard to believe that this was Gus.

Gus wasn't this still.

He wasn't this pale, despite his dark skin. And he wasn't this lifeless.

A thin sheet covered Gus up to his chest, and all kinds of tubes and catheters were sneaking out from underneath it. Sensors on Gus' chest were monitoring his heartbeat, transporting it onto one of the many monitors surrounding Gus' bed where it became visible as a green spiky line.

It was impossible to tell how many lines Gus was hooked up to. Different lines for each of the meds, all running together in a central line in Gus' neck.

But Shawn barely cast more than a fleeting glance at all the lines and sensors in and attached to various parts of Gus' body, and neither at all the machinery standing around the bed. It was a startling amount of machines and things Gus was hooked up to, but Shawn found his eyes drawn to his friend's face.

Or what he thought was supposed to be Gus' face.

Gus' head was wrapped in a white bandage which covered the place where the doctors had cup open his skull because of the bleeding. But what was visible of Gus' face simply didn't look like Gus' face.

Both his eyes were swollen shut, the right one worse than the left. His broken nose had been set, but that, too, was still swollen grotesquely. The right side of Gus' jaw was bruised, and it looked as if he has stuffed an entire chicken egg deeply into his right cheek.

It was as if his whole face was swollen in all possible places, some parts worse than others, and if Shawn hadn't known for sure that it was Gus, he wouldn't have recognized his best friend.

There was a tube going into Gus' nose, the purpose of which Shawn didn't know. And the tube of the ventilator that was forcing air into Gus' lungs was sticking obscenely out of his friend's mouth. Each breath was accompanied by a mechanical hiss, and not even the regular rise and fall of Gus' chest had any comforting effect on Shawn. Without that machine, Gus wouldn't be breathing at all. Whether or not that was because of the artificial sedation, there was no room for comfort in that thought.

Slowly, Shawn stepped up to the bed.

The doctor had said that Gus would probably notice what was going on around him. That it would help to talk to him. The problem only was that it wasn't that easy. What was Shawn supposed to say? He never had a problem talking to Gus, but then he had never been forced to talk to an unconscious Gus before. Well, there had been that one time in Mexico, but that had been different. And it had been drunken stupor rather than real unconsciousness. And despite all of Gus' whining and bitching about it, Mexico had been fun.

This most certainly wasn't.

"Dude," Shawn finally forced out in a hoarse voice as he stepped up right next to the bed. "I'm sorry."

He only hoped that the doctor had been right and Gus could really hear him. If he did, he certainly didn't react.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't stop them. They were worried that I'd find them. It was never about you, but still you're the one who got hurt."

This was beyond awkward. Despite all the beeps and hisses of the machinery, Shawn's words were echoing hollowly in the silence of the room. It was a weird one-sided conversation. Probably the nurses here in the ICU were used to it, but still Shawn found it a bit embarrassing to stand beside his friend's bed and apologize, especially since Gus gave no indication that he was able to hear him.

The strange thing was that despite all the weirdness of the situation, once he had started talking the words just seemed to tumble out one after another.

"Your mother blames me. What else is new? But that's all right. I mean, I don't blame her. It's my fault that you're lying here now, she's right about that. I just…" Shawn swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "Dude, you have to wake up, okay? This doesn't work without you. I can't think straight. I need you around to keep me grounded. So whatever you do, you better wake up again quickly."

Shawn shook his head and shifted nervously from one foot to the other. The gown they had made him wear made a rustling sound with every movement.

"It's beyond weird right now. Your mom is going nuts. My Dad is suddenly walking on eggshells around me. And your parents called Billy. That should be a reason to wake up, right? You haven't seen him in ages, and you've always been complaining that he's living too far away. And its definitely been far too long since we've last played a practical joke on him. I'm going to need your help to come up with something. You know what a whiner he can be if things backfire. We've got to think up something really good."

"Sir?"

Shawn turned around towards the nurse standing a few feet behind him.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Guster really needs his rest now. You can come back tomorrow."

Shawn nodded. "Sure." He turned back towards the bed. "I've got to go. But I'll come back, if your Mom lets me. Hang in there, dude."

Shawn made a fist with his right hand and carefully bumped it against Gus' slack left hand. But it wasn't the same. It wasn't a real fist-bump unless Gus bumped back. Shawn withdrew his hand again and let it hang loosely beside his leg as he turned and left the ICU.

A nurse helped him undo the gown before Shawn went through the double glass doors and left the sterility and artificial light of the ICU towards the waiting room outside.

His father was still in the waiting room outside, lingering near the elevator doors with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. The Gusters were also still around, standing at the far end of the room with Dr. Hall. When Shawn came out of the doors, his father looked up from the floor and took a few steps over towards him.

"How is Gus?"

Shawn shrugged. "Don't know. He's asleep. But he looks bad."

"Winnie and Bill are still talking to Gus' doctor. I wanted to wait around to see if there's anything new."

Shawn nodded and cast a sideward glance at Gus' parents. They didn't pay him any mind, they were too focussed on Dr. Hall's words. Nevertheless, Shawn didn't want to wait around and see what Mrs. Guster's attitude towards him was like now.

"I think I'll wait in the car. I need to get some fresh air."

Henry cast a long glance at Shawn, one that made him feel extremely uncomfortable. At times he had the feeling that his father could see through him all too easily, no matter how strong a façade he put up. But after a few seconds, Henry reached into his pocket and withdrew his keys.

"I'll be down in a few minutes."

Shawn took the keys and pushed the button that called up the elevator, and a minute later he stepped out into the main lobby of the hospital. The ER waiting area was to his left, and to his right he passed the nurses' station. One nurse was manning the front desk of the hospital, but behind her desk there was a small break room for the nurses. Normally Shawn wouldn't have paid much attention to the room, but just as he passed the halfway open door something caught his eye.

A nurse was sitting at the small table, a cup of coffee in front of her, and the speed at which she was sipping the coffee suggested that she was only on a short break. Her eyes were glued to the screen of a small TV. It was only a very small screen since it was a portable TV, and the picture was grainy, but it was clear enough for Shawn to recognize the picture.

The front steps of the SBPD.

Carlton Lassiter walking down the front steps of the SBPD, to be precise, Juliet walking a few steps behind him. As soon as Lassiter exited the department, a microphone was thrust in his face.

Shawn stopped and peered through the open doorway. It wasn't a live feed, the tagline at the bottom of the screen declared that it was a scene from this morning. The TV was standing close enough to the door so that Shawn could hear the barrage of questions that started as soon as Lassiter exited the department. One voice was audible above all others.

_"Detective Lassiter, Kara Bernadotti from WXSB. A short statement for our viewers please."_

There was a cut to Lassiter's face as he glared angrily into the camera.

_"No comment."_

The camera cut back to Kara Bernadotti's heavily makeup covered face. _"What does the SBPD have to say to this most recent racist attack?"_

Lassiter's glare as the camera cut back deepened, and he attempted to push his way through the reporters towards his car.

_"No comment."_

_"Do you treat this case differently, now that it has become personal and a consultant for the depar__tment has been attacked?"_

_"No comment."_

_"Detective, do you have any new leads in this case?"_

_"Just let me do my work, you won't get any comment from me."_

It was obvious that Lassiter's patience was wearing thin, but Kara Bernadotti didn't seem to care. She kept her microphone thrust in Lassiter's face as she and her cameraman hurried to keep up with him.

_"What can you tell us on Mr. Guster's condition? Is he going to be all right, or will there be any perm__anent damage?"_

Lassiter turned mid-step and glared at the reporter. _"I don't care! Do I have to spell it out for you? I don't give a damn about it!"_

Shawn stared for a moment, thinking he must have heard wrong. But even though there was a shot of Lassiter and Juliet getting into the car, and then a cut back to Kara Bernadotti speaking into the camera, Shawn didn't hear anything over the sound of blood pounding in his own ears.

_I don't care._

The edges of Shawn's vision turned black.

_I don't give a damn._

Shawn turned and started walking towards the front doors.

That bastard.

Gus was in a coma and Lassiter had nothing better to do than declare for the whole city to hear that he didn't give a damn about it.

Shawn didn't think that the whole world had to stop spinning for everybody now that Gus was in hospital, but that just topped it all. Gus had earned better than this. Lassiter wasn't going to get through with that. Not for as long as Shawn had some say in it.

His field of vision was limited to the sliding glass doors of the hospital entrance, and as soon as he stepped out into the bright afternoon sun he hurried over towards his father's truck.

Lassiter was going to pay for that.

Shawn got into the truck, revved up the engine and pulled the truck out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Lassiter would regret that he had said that.

He was going to regret it bitterly.

**Chapter 13 – ****If my mind is a jigsaw puzzle, someone took the corner pieces**

Shawn parked the truck across two parking spaces on the lot at the police station and got out without bothering to lock the truck up.

His field of vision was limited to the front entrance of the station. If a horde of elephants had walked past him right now he'd not have noticed. In fact, he didn't even remember much of the drive to the station. The fact that he didn't remember anything but the sound of a few car horns honking at him spoke volumes about his condition to drive a car. He was in no condition to drive, that was a fact.

But he had gotten here in one piece.

And now he had more important things on his mind.

Like finding Lassiter.

Shawn pushed open the doors to the station and brushed past the sergeant manning the reception desk without so much as a sideward glance. In fact, he didn't see him, not even as the man got up from his chair and stared after the resident psychic as he stormed into the station without waiting to get the obligatory visitor's pass.

There was no room for the man in Shawn's tunnel vision.

There wasn't room for anything but avoiding the most obvious obstacles in his way as he stormed along the corridor towards the head detective's desk. The thought that Lassiter might be out following up on leads didn't even cross his mind.

And he wasn't.

Shawn didn't hear the greetings and slightly startled questions that some officers called out to him as he brushed past them. He didn't see the surprised gazes of the people he passed.

All he saw was Lassiter's face.

_I don't care._

As soon as his eyes locked on the head detective, bent over a file on his desk, Shawn stopped blinking. He stopped thinking. He might have even stopped breathing.

_I don't give a damn._

Lassiter's earlier words were the only thing he could hear, echoing through his head again and again and again.

_I don't care. I don't give a damn._

Well, tough luck there. Because Shawn cared quite a lot. He gave more than just a damn.

Lassiter looked up, a slightly startled expression on his face, as Shawn's steps came hurrying towards his desk. At first his eyes narrowed in the usual suspicious and antagonistic way that they always narrowed when he was confronted with Shawn. But there must have been something in Shawn's face, something that was different than normal.

Lassiter's narrowed eyes widened just as Shawn had finally reached the desk.

Shawn didn't care about what Lassiter was thinking. He had made that perfectly clear in his TV-interview, there was no need for any further talking.

Lassiter saw the blow coming a split second after Shawn drew back his fist.

Too late to evade it.

Much too late to stop Shawn.

Barely in time to move his head slightly to the side.

It was pure satisfaction when Shawn felt his fist connect with Lassiter's face. Not strong enough to knock the detective out. But it was a satisfying feeling when his knuckles hit flesh and he saw Lassiter stumble back from the force of the blow.

Lassiter clasped both hands in front of his face, but Shawn had seen the blood running down his face from his nose.

"Spencer, what in blazes…"

"You bastard!" Shawn yelled over the detective's muffled voice and pulled his hand back for another punch. But this time, Lassiter saw the movement of Shawn's arm in time, and before Shawn knew what was happening there was a hand clasped around his right wrist in an iron grip and he was twisted around.

The air was knocked out of his lungs as his arm was twisted around on his back and his face and chest were pressed down onto the surface of the desk. Lassiter kept a firm grip around Shawn's wrist and bent his arm upwards until it really hurt and Shawn was rendered unable to move more than an inch without dislocating his shoulder or breaking his arm.

Shawn was panting, though he had no idea from what exertion, and he couldn't help but screw his eyes tightly shut against the pain shooting up his arm. Lassiter knew what he was doing. The pain wasn't so bad that it was unbearable, but it was bad enough to make sure that Shawn wouldn't try any sudden movements.

And it helped quite a bit to clear his head.

"Spencer," Lassiter's voice sounded close to Shawn's left ear. There was pain in the voice, as well, and a nasal undertone. "I want you to listen to me, and listen carefully."

Shawn tried to move out of the detective's grasp, but yelped in pain when Lassiter moved his bent arm slightly upward, increasing the pain. A pained sound escaped Shawn's lips as he lay there with his cheek pressed against the polished wood of the desk.

"Are you listening to me, Spencer?"

Teeth gritted in pain, Shawn nodded.

"Good. I want you to listen very carefully. While it's entirely possible that you have simply snapped, I think it's a safe bet to say that you've seen the news report that WXSB has been running for the past hour. Have you?"

Again, Shawn nodded. He was breathing through his nose in small bursts in an attempt to breathe through the pain, but Lassiter was holding him in a very tight grip.

"Then let me tell you one thing, Spencer. Right now, Chief Vick is sitting in her office, talking to the director of WXSB, demanding a counterstatement. Any child could see that this interview was cut together, Spencer. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Shawn didn't move, and Lassiter gave an exasperated sigh.

"Then let me clarify, since it seems that you're acting particularly thick today. Yes, I said what you heard on the news. But not as an answer to any question about Guster, but in response to that newswoman's constant pestering about her viewer's right to know every damn thing the police is doing. Because as much of a pain in the ass Guster and you are, I am a police officer and I know better than to let myself get carried away to give the press a statement concerning an ongoing investigation. Much less to make such a remark. My parents taught me some decency. Do you understand that, Spencer?"

Shawn bit his lip and gave a short nod.

"Good. I'm going to let go of your arm now, and I swear that if you only so much as twitch wrongly I am not going to show the same restraint I'm showing now. Are we clear on that?"

Again, Shawn nodded after only a slight moment of hesitation.

"All right."

Suddenly, the grip on his wrist and the pressure on his arm and upper body was gone. Slowly, Shawn straightened up and rubbed his aching arm and shoulder.

Lassiter was standing a few feet away from him, his eyes narrowed again. The detective's nose was bleeding and swollen slightly, and he was pressing one hand against it to stem the flow of blood while he pulled a tissue out of his pocket with the other.

Shawn was startled to notice how many officers were standing around the desk, staring at him and Lassiter. Juliet was nowhere to be seen, but Buzz was standing there, slaw-jacked, with a stack of files hanging loosely from his hand. A few other officers seemed undecided between watching the spectacle and intervening, but they all were torn out of their stupor when Lassiter turned around and barked at them.

"Don't you have work to do? You don't get paid for watching!"

Suddenly everybody was very busy and they all scuttled off in various directions. Lassiter turned back towards Shawn, and not even the bloody tissue was enough to distract from the darkness of his glare in any way.

"The only reason that you're not in need of an ambulance right now is that I assume the shock about Guster's condition stops you from thinking clearly. If you're even capable of thinking clearly by anybody else's standards. But if you raise your hand against me again Spencer, I promise you that you'll regret it. I won't waste a second thought on your state of mind again. Are we clear on that?"

Shawn wasn't able of doing anything but nodding numbly.

"Good. Now you sit down here until somebody comes to take your statement."

Lassiter pointed to the chair in front of his desk, then he turned around and vanished in the direction of the bathrooms.

Shawn didn't have much choice but to do as he was told and sit down in the chair in front of Lassiter's desk. Maybe it had been the pain in his arm, or the sight of Lassiter with blood running down his face, but his head was a lot clearer now than it had been only minutes ago.

Had he really just punched Lassiter in the nose? Had he really stormed out of the hospital, taken his father's truck and driven here in a total mental oblivion, an accident waiting to happen, just to punch Lassiter? For something the detective hadn't even said?

That newswoman had already twisted his own 'interview' the way she wanted it. Shouldn't he have taken just a second to consider that she might have done the same with Lassiter's? Had the interview been about Shawn, he'd have bought the _I don't give a damn_ without doubt. But Lassiter had never had anything against Gus. Well, nothing aside from the fact that he was Shawn's friend, but he truly didn't have any reason to make such a comment about Gus, on television no less.

He was never going to hear the end of that one. And now everybody would think he had snapped. Just great.

"Shawn!"

Shawn groaned and started to sink further into his chair. Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, the universe just had to prove him wrong. If this was what this whole karma issue was all about, Shawn wanted nothing to do with it.

Steps approached Lassiter's desk, and when they came to a stop directly next to him, Shawn had no choice but to look up. Right into his father's furious face. That was a degree of furious Shawn hadn't seen in a long time. Not the _baseball through a window_-furious. No, this was the full deal, including an extremely red face, narrowed eyes and that vein on Henry's forehead throbbing along with his heartbeat. That was the full _this is the most idiotic thing you've ever done_-furious.

"Dad."

"Don't you Dad me! What were you thinking? I waited with the Gusters for news, and when I come down and leave the hospital, the only thing I see is the taillights of my own damn car drive off the parking lot?"

"How did you find me?"

Henry threw his hands in the air in exasperation, as if that question was the most stupid question on earth.

"I got into a cab, that's what I did. I saw you driving down State Street and figured that you weren't going home. When we passed the station, I saw my car in the parking lot and got out. And now get your butt out of here and go lock the car. Or do you want it stolen?"

Shawn closed his eyes so that he wouldn't roll them. "It's the parking lot of a police station, Dad. Nobody steals cars here. Besides, no thief with a sense of honour would dare to touch the truck."

"Shawn!"

"Lassiter told me to wait. They need my statement."

Henry wordlessly stretched out his hand, and Shawn fished the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into the outstretched palm.

"No need to wait around for me."

Henry wordlessly turned around and left the station towards the parking lot. Shawn leaned back in his chair with a sigh, but was only granted a moment of peace. As if they had choreographed it, Lassiter reappeared just a few seconds after his father had left.

The detective's nose was still swollen slightly, but it had stopped bleeding and didn't look crooked. Well, not more crooked than normal, so Shawn guessed that his earlier punch hadn't broken Lassiter's nose. Buzz would probably be busy chalking Shawn's outline onto the floor right now if Lassiter only suspected his nose to be broken.

There was a dark wet spot on Lassiter's blue shirt, probably where he had rubbed off the blood that had dripped down from his face. His tie was gone, but his glare was back in place. Full force.

"Right Spencer. O'Hara isn't back yet, so I got stuck with taking your statement. Forensics worked your office last night, now we need your take on what happened. Shoot."

Shawn drew a deep breath. He had hoped for a little more preparation, and he had hoped that he'd be able to give his statement to somebody else. Anybody else but Lassiter. He was really through with all the karmic things now.

"Spencer, I don't have all day."

Shawn nodded. "All right. Gus and I were painting the office last night. At quarter past ten I decided to get us some smoothies. I was gone for ten, maybe fifteen minutes…"

Recalling what had happened was even more difficult than Shawn had thought it would be. Shawn only needed to close his eyes to be back in the office, to feel that guy's grip on his hair as he held his head in place and forced him to watch what they did to Gus. He could hear their voices in his ear as they continued to beat Gus right in front of his eyes.

_"I want you to watch this carefully, psychic."_

He heard Gus scream, and he felt the arms holding him back as he struggled against them holding him back.

_"They all squeal like dirty pigs when you punch them around a little. Sometimes they beg, sometimes they cry."_

His heart was beating fast in his chest as he tried to force those thoughts away, tried to focus on what was important for Lassiter's report. Lassiter didn't need to know what it had been like to hear the bone in Gus' leg break. Lassiter didn't need to know how he had yelled, raged and begged to get those bastards to stop.

_"Look how he's pleading for that nigger's life. He really seems to care. Too bad."_

Lassiter didn't need to know that for one glorious moment he had managed to get free. He didn't need to know that because it hadn't lasted longer than a second or two, and it hadn't helped Gus any.

It hadn't stopped them from beating him.

It hadn't stopped that one guy from pulling back his leg and kicking Gus in the head, breaking his skull and tearing an artery, forcing the doctors to cut open Gus' skull and put him into a coma…"

"Spencer!"

Lassiter's voice tore him out of his jumbled thoughts.

"Yes?"

The detective was watching him with a strange expression on his face.

"I asked you a question. Is there anything about the assailants that would help us find them? Anything at all?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. There's nothing."

"Thinks, Spencer. Anything, the smallest detail could help us find them."

Again, Shawn shook his head. "No, there isn't anything."

Lassiter sneered. "Don't the spirits have anything to contribute?"

Shawn drew a deep breath to stop himself from yelling at the detective. It wouldn't help right now. Not that it would help any if he kept replaying the attack on Gus over and over again.

"It were four guys. One was bulky, with a lot of muscles. 6 foot, maybe 6'1''. He was the one who…who broke Gus' leg."

Who practically jumped on Gus' leg. Who stomped on it so hard that it broke. The sound of bone breaking was worse than the sound of fingernails scraping along a blackboard, and Shawn couldn't get it out of his head.

He drew a deep breath.

"The second one was a lot slenderer. And smaller. Maybe 5'6''. He's the one who went to hold me back when the third…"

When the third went to finish Gus off. When the third went to kick Gus in the head.

"The third guy was smaller than the bulky one. 5'10'', about that. And slender, but muscular. Like an athlete of some kind. I never got a good look at the fourth guy. About as tall as me, I'd say. But I never even looked at him. They were all wearing dark clothes, and ski masks. I couldn't see their faces."

"Hair colour? Eye colour? Anything?"

Dark blue eyes that were only inches apart form his own flashed into Shawn's vision.

"Blue eyes. The third guy had blue eyes. But I don't remember anything else. That's all I can tell you."

Lassiter watched Shawn for a few long seconds as if he didn't believe that to be true, but then he nodded.

"All right. If there is anything else you remember, call. We have little enough to go on, and the forensics report will take a while yet to come in."

Shawn nodded. "All right."

Lassiter put his pen down on his notebook and leaned back in his chair. "Are there any news on Guster's condition?"

Shawn was slightly taken aback by that question. Not that he thought Lassiter didn't care, at least not with a clear head and no news broadcast to fuel his imagination. But he had figured that Chief Vick and the detectives were kept in the loop by someone.

"Nothing really new. They say he's stable. But the doctors don't know yet what will be once he wakes up."

Lassiter nodded again, his face not betraying what he was thinking.

"All right Spencer, that was it. You can go now."

Shawn got up from his chair and turned around, only to stop short. His father was standing just a few feet behind him, leaning against a wall with his shoulder and his arms crossed in front of his chest. The way he was standing, he had been in Lassiter's line of vision all along. And he was definitely standing close enough to have heard every word Shawn had said.

"Dad, what are you still doing here?"

Henry shrugged. "I figured you needed a ride. You know, it's considered impolite to leave people stranded somewhere."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Message received. But there is such a thing as privacy, you know? I don't think you're supposed to listen in on witness statements."

Henry shrugged as he started walking down the corridor.

"Lassiter had the chance to kick me out but didn't. And it's not as if you had told anything new."

Shawn stopped with a frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on kid. I taught you better than that. I've heard distraught housewives give more accurate statements than you did just now."

"Well, I'm sorry that I've disappointed your expectations yet again, but it is a bit hard to remember a lot of details about four masked guys who beat Gus into a coma. I was a little preoccupied while it happened, okay?"

Henry shook his head and stopped for a moment to return his visitor's pass at the front desk. When they stepped out of the police station, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned to look at Shawn.

"We both know that you remember a lot more than you just told Lassiter. A whole lot more. You only need to focus and think."

Shawn shook his head and turned towards the truck. It was parked legally in one parking space now and not straight across two, which meant that his Dad had taken the time to move the car earlier.

"I can't, Dad. You won't understand, but I can't think back on this. And I don't want to focus. I've been through it once, I have no intention to revisit it."

Henry shook his head as he unlocked the truck. "That's not going to help anybody, Shawn. What happened to Gus happened. If you pretend it didn't, you certainly won't help Gus. But if you focus just a little, I'm sure that there's something you've noticed which can put the police on the right track."

Shawn drew a breath to reply, but at that moment Henry's cell phone rang and he fished it out of his pocket.

"Hello? Oh, hello Bill."

Shawn felt his heart drop to a position somewhere between his knees where it was joined by his stomach. If Gus' father called his Dad, it had to be news about Gus. And right now, Shawn had the feeling that news about Gus were not good news.

His father listened intently for maybe a minute, then he shook his head.

"It's no problem, Bill. Seriously. I can be there in half an hour. Sure. No need to thank me, Bill. Bye."

Henry flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"That was Bill."

No kidding. Now that was a surprise, seeing that his father had used the man's name three times in as many sentences.

"Is anything wrong with Gus?"

Henry shook his head. "No, it was not about Gus. Come on, get into the car."

Shawn climbed into the passenger seat of the truck and closed the door. But he was still confused about the phone call. After buckling his seat belt, he looked over towards his father.

"So if Mr. Guster didn't call with any news, then what was this call about?"

Henry put the truck into gear and drove off the parking lot before he answered.

"I told Winnie and Bill to call if there was anything I could do. It seems that Bill finally convinced Winnie to try and get some rest. But now Billy called to say that he got an earlier connection from Los Angeles. He'll be landing in forty minutes, and Bill doesn't want to leave Winnie on her own right now."

Shawn frowned. "So what? We're going to the airport?"

Henry nodded. "Yes. We're going to pick up Billy."

Shawn leaned back in his seat with a sigh. Picking up Billy was good and fine, but picking him up and delivering him at his parents' house also meant another meeting with Mrs. Guster. And surely she wouldn't be asleep anymore by the time her younger son returned.

Maybe there was a chance that he could stay in the car.

And maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance that Billy wouldn't react the same way that his mother had reacted to seeing him.

He'd just have to wait and see. He'd know more in a bit less than an hour.

* * *

Thanks for reading and as always, please let me know what you think. Thank you.


	14. Sometimes, size does matter

I didn't even notice that I uploaded two chapters the last time I updated. Seriously, that actually was a mistake, but since I heard nobody complaining...

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 14 – Sometimes, size does matter**

It took Henry and Shawn a bit more than half an hour to reach the airport. Fortunately, traffic was very light so early in the afternoon. Henry steered the truck into the parking garage and drove around a little to find a space big enough to fit the truck that was close enough to the exit to the airport.

Shawn didn't mind, because his father didn't seem to be in any mood to talk. It gave him time to think.

For a few minutes they followed the signs saying _Arrivals_ until they finally ended up in the waiting hall where the passenger emerged after getting their luggage. The board on the wall informed them that the flight from Los Angeles had landed five minutes ago.

It left them with some more time to kill while they waited. Billy would have to get out of the plane first, then he'd need to get through security, and if he had brought any luggage he needed to wait for that first.

Plenty of time to reconsider how Shawn was feeling right now, standing here and waiting for Gus' brother to arrive.

William Guster jr. was a slight bit less than two years younger than Gus. Shawn would never understand what it was with the Gusters and naming their children. Shawn hadn't spent a lot of thoughts on his own name, but he was sure it could have come a lot worse than _Shawn_ for him. After all, Winnie and Bill Guster had managed to name two children who flat out refused to use their given names most of the time.

Gus could deal with being called Burton, though he preferred if the people close to him didn't do so. Billy positively hated being called William. And those unfortunate few who had ever dared to call him Willie before had certainly not done it twice, at least not to his face.

Shawn had known Billy ever since he and Gus had become friends. For most of their childhood and teenage years, he had been Billy the pest. Or Willie the pest, if they had been absolutely sure that he wasn't around to hear it.

From the mature age of five years on Billy seemed to have had the thought stuck in his head that it was the coolest thing on earth to hang around with his older brother and his brother's best friend. Not that Billy hadn't had any friends of his own, but that hadn't stopped him from trying to stick to Gus and Shawn whenever his own friends didn't have time to play.

Shawn and Gus however, had had different things on their mind than dragging Gus' little brother along for whatever mischief they were about to commit. Billy had only ever been useful for some more risky parts of their endeavours – stealing Mrs. Guster's cookies for them, distracting their parents when Shawn and Gus needed to make a fast and unnoticed getaway, and acting as a general scapegoat when something had gone wrong. But most of the time, Gus' little brother had been a pain in the behind.

More often than not, Gus had already dealt with the problem of getting rid of Billy before he arrived at Shawn's place – whether by locking him in or by telling on him and getting him grounded by their mother. But he hadn't always been able to leave Billy behind, so Shawn had spent a considerable amount of time during his childhood with Gus' little brother.

And for long years, the word _little_ had to be taken literally.

Gus had always been taller than Billy. Of course, after all he was two years older. And of course Billy had hated it when somebody had called him upon his smaller size.

Over the years, it had led to a running contest between Shawn and Gus of who could find the best nickname for Billy. They had called him Short-round, Half-pint, Shorty, Dwarf, Little Bugger, Diminutive (that one had been solely Gus, but it had entertained him for the better part of a whole summer – not surprisingly, the Spelling Bee summer), teeny-weeny William (only when Billy hadn't been in earshot), or Peewee Billy.

It had been entertaining and fun. Until Billy had hit his last growth-spurt. Though long past the time when he still had wanted to hang around with Shawn and Gus anyway, suddenly Billy had grown taller than both of them.

Maybe Billy's size was the reason why Gus' parents thought Gus' growth had been stunted by something, though Shawn was fairly sure that the cigarettes had nothing to do with it. But by the age of fourteen, Billy had hit a growth spurt Gus had never been able to catch up on. Not that Gus was small, but Billy had ended up being yet another half a head taller.

It had put a sad end to the everlasting game of thinking up nicknames that targeted Billy's size. Not only was he bigger than them now, but his reach was considerably wider and he had learned how to defend himself.

What had always astonished Shawn about the two brothers was that they were so different despite the fact that they had grown up in the same house, with the same parents. Gus was the older of the two, yet for some reason his mother had always mollycoddled and babied him. She had tried the same with Billy, no doubt about that, but somehow those attempts had rolled off of him. Billy just never let her baby him.

Now, Shawn was fairly sure that Gus never enjoyed his mother's way of treating him as if he was a five year-old, but his way of dealing with it had been letting her have her way and complaining about it as soon as she was out of earshot. He never had it in him to openly contradict her and put her in her place.

Billy had.

Strangely, it worked.

Mrs. Guster would probably always treat both her sons as if they were far younger than they actually were, but it was Gus she was still babying. Billy plain and simply didn't let her.

The distance probably helped. After graduating from high school, Billy had moved out and gone to college. And he had never shown any intention of returning to Santa Barbara. Shawn didn't know what exactly it was that Billy did, he and Gus didn't talk that often about Gus' little brother. But he knew that Billy had gotten a degree in engineering, and that he had been working as a consulting engineer in Connecticut since his graduation. He thought Billy's firm was constructing bridges or something, but he wasn't entirely sure.

The few times when Gus and Shawn talked about Billy, it was Gus telling him that he had talked to his brother, and that he was doing fine.

Gus and Billy didn't have all that much contact these days, so Shawn and Billy had even less. Not out of spite, not on either side, but Billy was living his own life, and that life was a few thousand miles away.

In fact, Shawn hadn't seen Billy in over five years now. He didn't doubt that he'd recognize Gus' brother, and in any case Billy would certainly recognize him and his Dad, but Shawn wasn't too sure what kind of a reaction he had to expect.

He didn't know what Gus' parents had told him about how Gus had gotten hurt. If Gus' mother had broken the news to her younger son, Shawn actually didn't want to meet Billy right now. They might not see each other often, or even talk regularly, but there was one thing Shawn was sure of, and that was that Billy and Gus cared about each other. A lot.

Ten, fifteen minutes passed in silent musing, then people from the flight from Los Angeles started to come through the door from the baggage claim. Shawn found his heart beating a bit faster in his chest as he scanned the thickening crowd for any sign of Gus' brother.

He spotted him the same moment his father did.

"There, isn't that Billy?"

Shawn took a closer look and found that it was indeed Billy who was coming towards them, a sports bag slung over one shoulder. He was dressed casually in a pair of jeans, a shirt and a light jacket, but then again Shawn couldn't remember ever seeing Billy in anything but casual clothes. His hair had grown out a bit since the last time Shawn had met him, and with some relief Shawn noticed that Billy had given up on that ridiculous goatee he had sprouted a few years ago.

Billy looked through the arrival hall, probably in search of his parents, and he stopped short when his eyes fell on Henry and Shawn.

It was obvious that he recognized them instantly, and just as obvious that his brain offered up a number of possible explanations as to why it wasn't his parents who were here to pick him up. He hurried over towards them with a few quick strides.

"Is something wrong with Gus?"

Henry shook his head. "No. Nothing changed since your parents' last call."

Billy breathed a visible sigh of relief. "Thank god. I was a bit worried for a moment. Hello Mr. Spencer."

Billy and Henry shook hands, then Billy turned towards Shawn. Shawn didn't quite know what to do, but he couldn't meet Billy's eyes directly. Normally, Billy was quick to smile, but this time the corners of his mouth didn't so much as twitch as he looked at Shawn.

"Shawn. How are you doing?"

Billy's voice was carefully neutral. Not antagonistic, but not friendly and excited either. Shawn shrugged. "I'm all right. It's good to see you."

"Yeah. My parents keep telling me that I have to drop by more often. Maybe I should have. How is Gus?"

Billy was still looking at Shawn, so he was probably expecting an answer from him, but Shawn didn't know what to say. He shrugged.

"I guess your parents told you what happened. They say he's stable for now, but he doesn't look too good."

Billy nodded thoughtfully. "I kinda hoped it'd all turn out to be only half as bad as Mom and Dad said it was."

Shawn shook his head. "No, I think they were pretty spot on with what they said."

"Maybe we should get back to the car." Henry's voice interrupted them. With a nod, Billy slung his bag over his shoulder again and they walked to the truck in silence. They were silent until Henry drove the car onto the freeway.

"I guess you'll want to see your parents first."

Billy, who was sitting on Shawn's right side, gave a short laugh. "Yeah, but if I show up there with my bag, they won't let me get away and I'll have to stay at their place."

Henry raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes on the road. "What's wrong with that?"

"No offence Mr. Spencer, but have you ever tried to live under one roof with my mother? I've done it for eighteen years, and I treasure my sanity far too much to try it again. If you'll drop me at Gus' place I'm going to bunk there."

"Did he give you his keys?"

Billy smiled and shook his head. "No. But I know Gus. He always hides a spare key somewhere in case he locks himself out." He turned towards Shawn. "Right?"

Shawn nodded. "Hollowed-out rock."

Billy frowned. "I thought Gus was living in an apartment."

"He is. But he put a hollowed-out rock on the second floor landing. It's how I get into his place most of the time."

Billy shook his head. "How often has his place been broken into?"

"If you discount the number of times that I used the key? Because Gus calls that _breaking and entering_ as well, despite the fact that I use a key. But the answer to your question is never. Obviously, even burglars can't believe that somebody would be stupid enough to leave their key right in front of their door. It's the only explanation that I have."

Billy chuckled, but there was no smile in his eyes as he stared out of the car window for the rest of the drive. Henry put the truck to a stop in front of Gus' apartment building, and Shawn couldn't shake off the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know how Billy was going to do it, merely the thought of spending time in Gus' apartment while Gus was in hospital, fighting for his life, was disheartening. It was like spending the night in a haunted castle, only that this time he knew the ghost personally.

Shawn didn't think he'd be able to even set foot in Gus' apartment right now. But if he was in Billy's situation and was faced with the choice of either Gus' apartment or staying with Gus' mother – well, maybe he would be able to after all.

Billy grabbed his bag from the back of the truck and shut the passenger door.

"Thanks for picking me up," he called through the open window.

"No problem. Are you sure I don't need to drive you to your parents' house?"

Billy nodded. "Yes, Mr. Spencer. I'll give them a call, but I'll need some rest before I drive over. I can take a cab."

Henry nodded. "All right. It was good seeing you again, Billy."

"Same here, Mr. Spencer. Shawn, I guess I'll see you around."

Yeah, if your mother will let me, Shawn thought. But he didn't say it out loud. Instead he only nodded as his Dad pulled the truck back on the road and drove off.

Shawn saw Billy vanish into Gus' building from the rear view mirror, then they drove around a corner and he vanished from sight. Shawn turned his eyes away from the mirror and continued to stare out of the window. His Dad either sensed that Shawn didn't want to talk, or maybe he wasn't in the right mood for talking himself. Either way, they spent the next part of the drive in silence. That is, until Shawn noticed where they were going.

"Why are we going to your place?"

Henry made a harrumphing sound in the back of his throat and continued to drive as if he hadn't heard, but his fingers tightened perceptively around the steering wheel.

"Dad, why are we going to your place?"

Henry turned around the corner and into the street that led to his house.

"I'm still on doctor's orders not to leave you alone."

Shawn sighed. "Did the doctor give any indication as to the duration of these orders? Because our track record of living under one roof isn't exactly great."

Henry chuckled. "We managed to live under the same roof for seventeen years, kid."

"Yes, and would you want to repeat the experience?"

Henry seemed to seriously consider the suggestion for a moment, then he shook his head with a smile. "No, probably not. Living with you during your teenage years once was enough to last a lifetime."

"Yeah, and of course it wasn't a one-time experience because people are known to go through puberty repeatedly. But since we agree that we don't actually want to stay under one roof on a long-term basis, why don't you just drop me off at the office so that I can get my bike and go home?"

But Henry only shook his head and pulled the truck into the driveway.

"You've been out of the hospital for not even twelve hours yet. No chance that I'll just drop you off somewhere anytime today."

Shawn rolled his eyes, but got out of the car and went into the house. There were times when arguing with his Dad promised results. Today was not one of them.

With a sigh, Shawn flopped down in one of the kitchen chairs.

"Now that I'm officially in custody, the least you can do is put some food on the table."

Henry turned towards Shawn, but for once he didn't back down under his father's glare. If he was going to spend the evening with his Dad, he needed a dinner to carry him through. It was as easy as that. And after a few minutes, Henry relented with a sigh.

"I didn't go shopping, but I'll see what I can whip up."

"Good."

Shawn leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest as Henry started to rummage around in the kitchen cupboards. Shawn had no idea what it was that he was doing, but a few minutes later pots started to boil away on the stove, so that meant his dinner was about to be prepared. That was all he needed to know.

"Satisfied now?" Henry asked as he carried their plates over towards the sink half an hour later. Shawn stretched and with a sigh patted his stomach.

"For a jail, the food was pretty decent, yes."

Henry grunted something and held a can of soda out to Shawn. Upon his son's nod, he brought it over towards the table together with his cup of coffee.

"We need to talk."

Shawn popped the can and took a sip of the soda. Anything to avoid his father's gaze at that moment. This was exactly the reason why he hadn't wanted to stay at his father's place. He didn't want to talk about things. He especially didn't want to talk about the things his father probably wanted to talk about.

"Dad, not now."

"You don't even know what I want to talk about."

Shawn regarded his father with a raised eyebrow. "You're as subtle as a sledgehammer, just in case you weren't aware of that little fact until now. That phone call from Gus' dad earlier interrupted you right in the middle of a tirade, and we all know how much you hate being interrupted during one of those."

Henry shook his head and sat down in the chair next to Shawn, facing him. He had been sitting at the opposite side of the table before, and somehow the sudden proximity made Shawn uncomfortable.

"Kid, we both know that you're statement earlier was complete and utter crap."

"Hey, I didn't leave anything out! Do you honestly think I'd leave out any information if it helps catching those bastards who did this?"

Henry shook his head. "No. But you weren't really making an effort. _They were holding me back and forced me to watch as they beat Gus._ Come on Shawn, that's not part of a statement. That's a sentence in a third-grader's essay. You can do better than that!"

"What, do my witness statements get graded now? I'm sorry, if I ever write an essay titled "How I saw my best friend get beaten into a coma", I'll make sure that it's at least on a fifth grade level!"

Henry sighed and ran both hands over his head. Shawn looked down at his can of soda and started to trace his finger through the moisture that had gathered on the side of the can. All this verbal sparring was only going to delay the conversation his father wanted to have. And without his bike, he was stuck here and had to sit through it. Except maybe if he managed to call a cab without his father noticing. And the odds of that one were minimal.

"Shawn, that's not what I meant. And you know it. But let's face the facts. The police aren't getting anywhere with their investigation. If they had a solid lead on the people who did this, we'd know about it by now. So all that is left is that you try and remember what happened last evening. We both know that you noticed a lot more than the little bit you told Lassiter earlier. You only need to focus and remember."

Shawn shook his head, heart suddenly beating fast in his chest. There was nothing he wanted less than to replay the events of the previous night in his head. Earlier, when he had given his statement to Lassiter, he had been forced to flash back to what had happened. He had tried to keep it down as much as possible, but still. It had nearly been too much to bear to remember what those guys had done to Gus. And now his father wanted him to visit the attack again in detail? Fat chance of that happening.

Henry put his mug down on the polished wood of the table and looked straight at Shawn. Shawn was still staring down at the can in his hands as if it was the most interesting thing he had come across in a long time, but he felt his father's gaze burning a hole into his forehead. Finally, he relented and looked up.

Blue eyes were watching him intensely. "You need to remember, Shawn."

Shawn shook his head. "I can't, Dad. You don't know what it was like."

"No, I don't. But I've seen this before. I've interviewed people before who didn't want to remember and said they couldn't remember. In the end, they all could."

"Don't compare me to one of your witnesses!" Shawn got up form his chair so abruptly that it toppled over and fell to the floor, but he barely noticed. "Not everything in this world can be compared to an example from Henry Spencer's cop life! I can't do this, Dad!"

He started pacing up and down the kitchen, not looking up to meet his father's eyes.

"Yes, you can. If anybody can, it's you Shawn. Gus needs you to do this right now. I know that you have seen a lot more than you remember right now. You don't forget these things."

"That's exactly the problem!" Shawn stopped his pacing and glared at his father. "Do you have any idea how awful it is not to forget these things? Do you have any idea what a curse a near-perfect memory is? I only have to close my eyes and I can play that whole attack in my mind. It's like going to the movies, but admission is free. I couldn't forget it even if I wanted to. Thanks to you, I'm never going to forget even the slightest detail of those cowards beating my best friend into a coma, so don't you start going all _Gus needs you to do this_ on me! You don't know what you're asking of me!"

Henry didn't explode like Shawn had thought he would. Normally, yelling at his father was a sure way to trigger an explosion. But right now he was only watching Shawn calmly.

"I never said this was easy. But you have been through this already Shawn. Just because you refuse to think back on what happened doesn't make it undone. It won't help Gus to wake up again. Do you think I'd ask you to go through this again if I didn't think that you could discover something to really bring this case forward? I'm not doing this because I enjoy to see you in anguish. I'm asking this of you so that those people can be stopped before they do something like this to somebody else."

Shawn ran a hand through his hair as his mind raced around his father's words.

Of course his father was right.

Not that he'd ever admit it, but his father was right.

If the cops were no closer to finding those bastards, Shawn had to do it.

But he didn't want to.

He didn't want to see those images again, he didn't want to stir up those memories, no matter how selfish a thought that was. They would surface soon again anyway. Shawn had no delusions about the contents of his nightly dreams for the next weeks. Was it really too much to ask to be spared those memories for as long as he could?

But of course his father simply had to be right.

There was no evading it. He needed to do it.

Shawn leaned back against the counter and stared down at his feet, his breaths coming in short bursts through his nose. He already knew that there was no escaping it. But to be brutally honest, if he already looked back on what happened, he'd have preferred to do it somewhere else. With someone else present.

Shawn ignored the stab of pain as he formulated the thought in his mind. The only one he really ever felt comfortable having around when he went on one of his trips into his own mind was Gus. Gus might not always understand how his memory worked, either, but at least he knew how to deal with him when he figured something out. He knew when to trust his deductions blindly and when it might be time for some open scepticism.

He was Gus, that was the easiest way to put it. Gus was simply Gus, and Shawn needed Gus around for this.

Only right now it didn't work like that.

"Shawn?"

Shawn drew a deep breath. "All right."

"Good. Just focus on what they said. How they moved, how they talked, anything. Don't focus on what they did."

Oh yes, that was going to be a piece of cake.

"When did they come?"

Shawn shrugged. "I went for smoothies at quarter past ten. I was gone for maybe fifteen minutes, and when I came back they were already in the office."

"So what does that tell you?"

Shawn sighed and looked up. "If your next question is going to be how many hats there were in the room, the answer is none. But there were four ski masks."

Henry sighed and shook his head. "I'm not trying to make this difficult for you Shawn. But if they got into the office and overwhelmed Gus within ten to fifteen minutes, incidentally the fifteen minutes during which you weren't there, that means they were watching the office. So, did you see anything when you left the office? Anything at all that you didn't pay any mind to at the time? A car that was parked somewhere, people lingering around, anything?"

Shawn drew a breath to snap a reply at his father, but then he closed his mouth again with a shake of his head. Yelling at his Dad wouldn't help him now.

He closed his eyes and thought back.

He left the office heading for the juice bar. His bike had been parked right next to the office, but he had decided against taking it. There had been four cars in the parking lot as he had passed it. Two SUVs, an old Chevy and Gus' car. All of them had been empty. Two cars had passed by on the street on his way to the office, but none had been driving below the speed limit, so chances were that they hadn't been paying any attention to him. And the only person he had seen on the entire way – aside form the cute barista – had been a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart along the beach promenade.

On his way back, there had been no cars driving past him on the road. The same four cars in the lot near the office, all empty again. And the homeless guy had been there, though a few hundred yards down the beach promenade.

Shawn shook his head as he opened his eyes again.

"There was nothing. No car, no people hanging around, nothing. But I only saw the side of the office that's facing the parking lot when I left. They could have been behind me and I wouldn't have seen them. And by the time I came back, they were already inside."

Henry nodded slowly.

"All right. What about when you came back inside the office? You gave Lassiter the general description of the guys, but there has to be something more."

Shawn pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes tightly closed. He felt a headache rising, but maybe that was only his brain's way of trying to protect himself against what he was going to do now.

"They hit me over the head when I came into the office. Gus wanted to warn me, but I didn't hear him in time. The next thing I know, they were dragging me into the office. Gus was there. They had already beaten him, I guess they punched him a couple of times because he was doubled over. But it wasn't bad compared to…"

_Compared to what they did to him afterwards._

"Two of them were holding me back. Two were standing near Gus. The bulky guy and the slender guy. One of the two holding me back was talking to me, telling me that it was a warning. He was the one who kicked Gus in the head later."

_The one who kicked him so hard that it broke his skull and an artery ruptured._

Henry nodded as his son described the basic layout of what had happened, but Shawn didn't see. He still had his eyes closed tightly.

"What about their language? Did they have any accents?"

"Only two of them said anything at all. The bulky guy…"

_The one who jumped on Gus' leg. The one who broke his leg, snapped it like a twig with that awful sound that still made Shawn's skin crawl._

"He was talking normally. No accent, nothing that stood out. But he only said a few words."

"What about the other one?"

Merely thinking about the voice whispering into his ear sent shivers down Shawn's spine. But he knew that now that he had started this, he could as well pull it through to the end.

"He didn't have an accent either. And he kept repeating himself, telling me over and over again that it was a warning. He really liked to use the word nigger. But…"

Henry's head perked up. "But what?"

Shawn shook his head and shushed his father with a raised finger as he allowed the memories of that night to come back in more clarity.

_Just stop struggling, psychic. I'd hate to have to hurt you as well, that would ruin the whole sense of the warning. You __are merely here as a spectator._

_Oh look, he's worried for his nigger friend. That's what happens to race traitors, psychic. You just shouldn't mingle with niggers, and now you're both getting what you deserve._

"He was constantly calling Gus a nigger, and tossing around all that other racist crap, but somehow it didn't fit. His speech was…elaborate at times. Educated. He told me I was there _merely as a spectator_.

The way he said things contradicted what he said. Does that make sense?"

Shawn looked up to find his father watching him intensely. Henry nodded. "It probably means he has a higher education of some sort."

"Yeah, I can already see that's going to help us find him."

"Shawn." Henry's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You're doing good. That's already more information than you gave Lassiter this morning. And I think there's still a lot more that you can come up with."

Yes, only Shawn wasn't sure if he really wanted to go there.

He didn't want to revisit the moments when he had been forced to watch Gus being beaten. He had never felt so helpless in his entire life than during those minutes. And those minutes had felt like endless hours.

Shawn didn't want to replay those minutes because he was afraid of what he might find. He was scared that he might find the one moment when he could have made a break for it. Maybe there had been a moment when he could have done something to help Gus, something that would have stopped this madness from happening. He was scared that if he allowed those memories to come back, he'd realize that he was even more guilty than he already felt.

"Shawn?"

Shawn shook his head, but didn't meet his father's eyes. "I can't, Dad."

There was the sound of a chair scratching against the tiles, then Henry was suddenly standing in front of Shawn.

"Yes, you can."

Shawn only shook his head silently, his eyes screwed tightly shut until he felt a hand on his chin that stopped the movement of his head. Startled, he opened his eyes and looked at his father.

"You can do this, Shawn."

"I can't. I just…I can't. Not this."

"You need to do it."

Again, Shawn shook his head. "I can't. It's not exactly the best moment of my life you're trying to make me recall. It's my fault that this happened to Gus, and you want me to go back and think about the tiniest detail…"

"Shawn, what happened was not your fault."

"Yes it was!" Shawn took a step back from his father and ran both palms over his face. "I should have done something. I should have tried to stop them, but all I did was watch!"

"How many people were holding you back?"

"What?"

"You heard me, Shawn. How many people were holding you back?"

"Two. Three towards the end. But that doesn't matter…"

"Yes, it does. It matters Shawn. It matters a whole lot. Two grown men, and later three, were holding you back. And you still think that you could have done something against that? You have bruises in the shape of human hands and fingers on your arms that show how much you tried. There was nothing you could have done to stop them."

Shawn bit his lip. Hard. He wanted to believe his father's words, but somehow he just couldn't. Rationally maybe. But his feelings were another matter entirely.

His father's hands went to his shoulders and squeezed them for a short moment before letting go again.

"You can do this, Shawn."

Shawn drew a deep breath. It was so hard to focus, especially not if he didn't know what he was searching for. The clothes of those guys had all been the same kind. Black trousers, black shirts and hooded sweaters, boots and ski masks. Nothing that stood out.

There was one of the four guys who hadn't done anything but holding Shawn back. Shawn wasn't even sure about the guy's height and built. But he had seen all the other three clearly, so there had to be something. Something he knew, something he had missed.

Bulky guy. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

_Jumping on Gus' leg, breaking it with the whole weight of his body. Laughing about it._

The slender guy who had held Gus' leg for bulky guy to break it. Slender guy had kicked Gus around, but compared to the force behind bulky guy's blows and kicks he hadn't done much damage.

And he had given up his place willingly for the other guy.

_The one who had kicked Gus in the head. Who had kicked Gus in the head twice._

Shawn wouldn't forget the image of Gus' head snapping back from the force of the blow.

Shawn's breathing was coming in hitched gasps as he remembered how Gus' eyes had rolled back in his head after that first kick.

He had struggled and pulled against the hold of his three captors back then because the moment the third guy had started beating Gus, Shawn had known that the guy didn't care whether Gus survived or not. But no matter how much he struggled, no matter how strongly he pulled against the hold on his arms and around his waist, no matter that his right arm was getting bruised and scratched from slender guy's claw-like hold on him, a grip so strong that it tore through the gloves and Shawn's shirt, no matter all that, he had to watch helplessly as the guy pulled back his foot again.

And slammed it against the side of Gus' head.

Breaking bone.

Tearing an artery.

The dull sound of the boot connecting with Gus' skull was even worse than the sound of Gus' leg breaking.

Shawn barely managed to turn around and lean over the sink as his dinner rose up his throat again. His stomach gave a big heave as he threw up his dinner into the sink. But still the heaving didn't let up. A warm hand settled on his back as he helplessly heaved up partly-digested pasta, but Shawn barely noticed. His stomach was a tight knot, and the retching didn't let up for some long moments, until he brought up nothing but bile.

Shawn was shaking, leaning onto the counter with both of his hands as he waited for his body to slide back under his control. Only gradually did he become aware of the hand that was slowly rubbing up and down his back.

Great. Now he had lost it completely right in front of his Dad. Just what he had wanted to avoid.

"I didn't want to push you too far. I'm sorry."  
But even though an apology from Henry Spencer was an event that searched its precedents in history, Shawn shook his head.

Henry hadn't pushed him too far.

He hadn't pushed him too far because he had remembered something he hadn't been aware of before. Though it should have been obvious. He had bruises on both arms from where he had been held back. His left arm was badly bruised, but only his right arm was also scratched.

His right arm was where slender guy had been holding him. Slender guy's claw-like grip had scratched the skin of Shawn's arms. The assailant's gloves had torn during Shawn's struggles, just like Shawn's shirt.

And now he remembered why.

He had seen it, for the flash of a second, but at the time he hadn't known the meaning behind it. But now he did.

Slender guy's fingernails had torn through the gloves and his shirt, right into the skin of his arms. They had left deep scratches in the skin of his arms. Shawn only had to close his eyes to see them clearly in front of his mind's eyes.

Long fingernails.

With nail-polish.

That was why his skin had been scratched. That was why he had been able to tear himself loose at first.

Slender guy was no guy. Slender guy was actually slender girl.

One of the attackers had been a woman.

But there was more.

Shawn drew a deep breath and straightened up slightly. Looking into his father's eyes, he drew a deep breath.

"I know who one of the attackers is."

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks.


	15. Brotherhood I

**Chapter 15 – Brotherhood (I)**

"What do you mean, you know who one of the attackers is? Just a few hours ago you said you didn't even know their hair-colour, and now you say you actually know one of their names? Care to tell me how that particular memory suddenly came to you?"

Shawn rolled his eyes impatiently at Lassiter's gruff question.

As soon as his stomach had no longer felt as if it was doing flip-flops in his intestines, he had hurried out towards his father's car. Henry had tried to get an explanation out of him, but Shawn had pressed that they get to the station as soon as possible. He didn't want to explain all this twice, his father would just have to wait until they got to the station. Until then, it had to be enough that Shawn remembered something. After all, that was what Henry had wanted – for him to remember something.

So they had driven to the police station. And they had been lucky and Lassiter had still been there, though he had been about to leave just as Shawn came running up towards his desk.

But now it seemed he just didn't want to take the lead Shawn was dangling in front of him. The lead he had been desperate to find only a few hours ago.

"The spirits told me."

It was a lame try. Shawn didn't even put any effort into it, it was merely an attempt to make Lassiter forget about his question and start searching for the attacker.

But Lassiter merely cast a withering glare in Shawn's direction. "I don't believe that crap on a good day. And believe me Spencer, this has been anything but a good day. So how about you try that again."

Shawn didn't need to look at the swelling of Lassiter's nose and the slight bruising under his eyes to understand what the detective meant with _not a good day_.

He drew a deep breath, trying to brace himself for the outbreak that was about to come.

"I remembered, okay? Those scratches on my arm?" Shawn pulled up the sleeve on is right arm to reveal the angry red scratches that had scabbed over by now. "They're from the fingernails of one of the people holding me back. Fingernails so long that they tore through the gloves and my shirt when I tried to pull free. I saw them."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows. "Fingernails."

Shawn could have screamed in frustration that it took the detective so long to catch up on this.

"Long, artificial fingernails. With nail polish. One of the four guys was a woman."

"Okay, but I still don't see how that gives us a name. What, you want me to put out a BOLO on all women in Santa Barbara wearing nail polish? Gee, why don't I just go and arrest O'Hara, since she'll be on that list as well."

Shawn sighed and impatiently ran a hand through his hair. His father was standing a few feet behind him, leaning against a desk and watching them silently. He made no move to jump into the conversation and help Shawn convince the detective. Despite the personal note of this case his standpoint was clear – if Shawn chose to tell the police that he solved his cases by psychic intuition, then it was his job to convince the detectives of the leads he found.

"Not just any nail polish. A very distinct red and orange pattern, like you make a lot of spots and then smear them into each other. I saw that pattern when she was holding me back, I just didn't remember it until earlier."

Lassiter crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at Shawn for a few long seconds, as if waiting for a further explanation. When none came, he sighed.

"So one of the attackers was a woman wearing red and orange nail polish. How exactly does that lead to a name?"

Shawn sighed. "Because I've seen her before. The day before the attack."

Both Lassiter's eyebrows went up expectantly. "I'd love to hear the details on that."

"It was at the Pi Sigma Delta fraternity house."

"Where you had no business being, Spencer. What were you doing there?"

"Following up a lead. I had a strong feeling about the fraternity house, and there was an open keg party there, so I thought why not. I was hoping I'd get a psychic lead there, something to follow. That's where I saw her. 5'6'', blond hair that goes to her shoulders, slender, around 22. Her name is Sue."

Lassiter shook his head. "Even that won't help us much, Spencer. With just a first name to go on, how do you suppose we find that woman? Surely she's not on the fraternity membership list."

"I know that, all right? But it's a lead. She has a friend called Tracy, and another friend called Dylan." Shawn remembered the looks Sue had given Dylan when he had passed them on his way out of the fraternity house. And the pin with the Greek letters on the collar of Dylan's shirt. "Her boyfriend. He's a member of the fraternity. There can't be too many Dylans on the membership list now, can there be? So you'll probably find her that way."

Shawn had only seen Dylan – if the boy Sue had been talking to had really been Dylan – but the more he thought back on those few fleeting glances while passing, the more his stomach pulled together in a tight knot.

Dylan had been around 6' tall, maybe a little taller. With a very muscular build. Probably a football player. Definitely with a very bulky build. And Dylan was a member of the Pi Sigma Delta fraternity.

Shawn hadn't heard Dylan's voice that night. It had been far too loud in the fraternity house. And bulky guy hadn't spoken much, just a sentence or two. There was no real proof, nothing concrete to go on. But Shawn had a very bad feeling about him all of a sudden.

"Maybe you should start by finding this Dylan first and bring him in."

"On what grounds?"

"I'm not sure."

"Oh, that's great!" Lassiter threw his hands in the air in frustration. "I'm supposed to bring him in just like that, without any reason? What do you want me to do, arrest him on a charge of _maybe you did something, our resident psychic isn't sure yet_? I can't do that, Spencer, and it's sad that I have to explain this to you in the first place."

"I know that, okay? But…surely there is a way for you to get him to come to the station without officially arresting him? I need to hear his voice to be sure."

"So now you think he's one of the attackers, too?"

"I'm sure his girlfriend is. He might be, but as I said. I need to hear his voice."  
Lassiter tapped his foot to the ground for a few seconds, staring at the phone on his desk. After a few seconds of silent foot tapping, he sat down in his desk chair and pulled a file out of his drawer. It seemed he had completely forgotten about Shawn's presence for the moment as he opened the file and scanned a page. Halfway down the page, his eyes stopped moving and he looked up at Shawn.

"There's a Dylan Kincaid on the fraternity membership list."

"That's got to be him. So what are you waiting for? Call him and ask him to come here!"

"Spencer, it's nearly ten in the evening."

"And his girlfriend could be one of the attackers who beat Gus into a coma. I'd say that's a reason to call him even if it's three in the night."

Lassiter sighed, but he picked up his phone and dialled a number he read in the file. He leaned back in is chair as he listened to the phone ring. Shawn felt his chest tighten as he silently counted the seconds, but after half a minute Lassiter hung up again without having said a word.

"Seems as if he's not home. At least he doesn't answer his phone, and there's no answering machine."

"Does he live in the fraternity house?"

Lassiter shook his head. "No, he has an own apartment close to the campus. I'll send a patrol car by his place to see if he's home and just doesn't answer his phone. If he's not there, we'll ask him to come to the station tomorrow."

Shawn didn't want to wait until the next morning. Now that he had found something that could be a lead, he really didn't want to wait just a minute longer. In the worst case, Dylan Kincaid really was bulky guy and he and his mates were beating somebody else to death right now. If Shawn had his way, he'd put a BOLO for Dylan Kincaid out as soon as possible. But that was not how the police worked, Shawn knew that. Right now, Dylan Kincaid was nothing more than a possible witness, and not a suspect. Not enough for a warrant. Not by a long shot.

And when ten minutes later the patrol car Lassiter had sent over reported back that nobody had opened the door for them and the apartment had been dark, Shawn had to admit defeat for tonight.

Dylan Kincaid wasn't home, and they'd need to wait until he was to find out more.

Without Kincaid they wouldn't find out Sue's last name and where she lived.

There was nothing more that could be done tonight. And Lassiter had already been halfway on his way home when Shawn and his father had arrived at the station. The detective had been through a double shift already and wasn't particularly keen on staying at the station for any longer.

So he sent Shawn and his father home with the promise to call as soon as there were any news.

Before he knew it, Shawn found himself in the passenger seat of his father's truck again, heading back towards Henry's house.

"Now that went great."

Henry sighed and took his eyes off the road for a second to look at his son.

"Tomorrow is a weekday. That guy Dylan Kincaid will go to his classes, the police will find him there."

"I don't want to wait until tomorrow."

Henry uttered a mirthless bark of laughter. "I don't think you have much of a choice, kid."

Shawn hated not having a choice even more than waiting.

When they arrived back at the house, it was half past ten. Late enough for Shawn to go upstairs immediately, claiming that he was tired and wanted to go to sleep. Not that he thought his father bought it, but it was the one excuse that would stop even his father from coming after him.

A closed bedroom door still was the ultimate barrier even his father rarely crossed without a good reason.

With said door closed firmly behind him, Shawn undressed down to shorts and t-shirt, extinguished the lights and lay down in his bed.

And of course, sleep didn't come. He could not fall asleep with his mind in total overdrive, information and little pieces of memory racing from one part of his brain to the other, trying to interconnect and form a picture. His brain was busy solving a puzzle without knowing what the picture on the box looked like, and it was running on full capacity to do so. That process took up all available parts of his brain, there was no chance for anything to go on standby and get some rest.

Too many thoughts.

Too many images.

Red and orange fingernails digging into his arm, clawing through his shirt.

Sue's face next to him, without the ski mask, sneering at him as she held him back, her eyes sparkling in slightly drunken stupor and those huge earrings dangling from her lobes, looking just as she had done that night in the fraternity house.

Bulky guy, looking up and sneering at Shawn before he jumped on Gus' upraised leg, breaking the bone like a twig. Only that it wasn't bulky guy's face hidden behind a ski mask, it was Dylan Kincaid's face pasted over bulky guy's faceless form.

And the bone broke, snapped in two, and even the sound was the same sound as that of a twig breaking.

Sue had been one of the attackers, the one who had been kicking Gus before bulky guy had broken his leg.

Dylan could very well have been bulky guy.

The more often that scene played in Shawn's mind, the more convinced he became.

But that still didn't tell him who the other two had been.

The silent one who had held him back the entire time.

And the one who had talked to him the entire time. The one who had held him back at first.

The one who had kicked Gus in the head.

Shawn couldn't stop that scene from playing in his head, either. Gus' head snapping back from the impact of the kick. His eyes rolling back in his head as he finally lost consciousness.

_Oh look, he's worried for his nigger friend._

That damn awful sound of bone breaking like a dry twig.

The even more awful sound of a boot connecting with Gus' skull.

Gus' head snapping back.

His eyes rolling back in his head.

_Seems like I broke ou__r toy._

Those strange sounds Gus' breathing had made, during those endless minutes before the ambulance had arrived.

The paramedics pushing that huge needle in between Gus' ribs to drain the blood that caused Gus to make those strange sounds while breathing.

All that blood.

Gus' head snapping back, his eyes rolling so that only the whites of his eyes showed before they closed in unconsciousness.

And all the while hands holding him back, talon-like red and orange nails digging into his arm, holding him back, stopping him from helping his friend, from putting an end to this madness…and that hand in his hair that forced him to watch what they were doing to Gus…

Shawn sat bolt upright in his bed all of a sudden, heart hammering away in his chest and the taste of bile so strong on his tongue that he had to fight the urge to vomit. He was breathing in harsh, fast bursts as his eyes strayed wildly around the dark room, trying to figure out where he was.

Dim light filtered in through the window, and after a few seconds Shawn could make out shapes he recognized. His desk. The old soccer trophies on the shelf. His old bedroom in his father's house.

It seemed he had fallen asleep after all.

With a loud sigh, Shawn leaned his head into his hands just as the door to his bedroom was opened to reveal his father's outline against the corridor lights.

"Shawn? Are you all right?"

"What? Yes, I'm fine." He shook his head to clear his thoughts and ran a hand over his face. "I'm fine."

Henry drew a heavy breath. "I just thought. Well, you were screaming."

"I'm fine!"

It might have been Shawn's harsh tone, or the fact that neither he nor Henry were the kind of guys to share emotional burdens openly and quickly, but Henry nodded.

"All right. Good night."

"Night."

The door closed again, and Shawn fell back against his mattress with another sigh. His sheets and shirt were clammy with cold sweat, and his heart was still beating faster than normal as he lay there and stared ahead at the ceiling into the darkness.

He was tired, but already he knew that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again. Not tonight. Not if he'd be back at the office just in time to watch those guys beat Gus half to death as soon as he closed his eyes.

Not again.

So Shawn stared ahead into the darkness and waited for the sun to go up.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The morning half-hour during which Gus was allowed visitors was from 9 to 9:30. Shawn didn't think the Gusters would let him in to see Gus during that short period of time, especially not with Billy being here now, as well. But after a lengthy discussion over breakfast, which his father forced him to eat up entirely, he finally got Henry to relent and drive him to the hospital nevertheless.

And he convinced his father that he was a big boy and could go up to the ICU alone, without his father tagging along as his constant watchdog. It resulted in a lot more grumbling, but finally his father agreed.

Shawn stepped out of the elevator a few minutes before half past ten. Definitely too late to give the Gusters the feeling that he wanted to interfere with their visiting times, but early enough to catch them on their way out, to hear if there were any news.

In the waiting room in front of the ICU doors, he found Bill Guster sitting in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, staring out the window. He looked much older than Shawn remembered him, as if he had aged a good ten years over the past twenty-four hours.

Bill turned to look at him as Shawn approached, but Shawn found it impossible to read the expression on Bill's face.

"Good morning Mr. Guster."

"Morning Shawn."

Hesitantly, Shawn sat down a few seats away from his friend's father.

"Visiting hours are nearly over. Winnie and Billy should be out soon."

Shawn nodded. "I know. I came to hear if there's any news."

Bill shook his head. "The doctor says his condition is still the same. Stable, whatever that means when they say it. But they were going to let him wake up this morning."

"Wake up? You mean he's awake?"

Bill shrugged. "I don't know. Dr. Hall said they'd lower his meds to keep his body's normal day and night rhythm up. He'll wake up, but he probably won't be really coherent."

Shawn nodded and they settled back in wordless wait.

A few minutes later, the doors to the ICU opened and Winnie and Billy came out. Bill got up from his chair and went over towards them, putting an arm around his wife's shoulder. Winnie looked at Shawn for a brief moment, but didn't say a word. It was Billy who immediately took a few steps over towards Shawn before he turned towards his parents again.

"I'll catch up with you downstairs in a moment. Why don't you drink a coffee for a few minutes?"

Winnie looked as if she was about to say something, but Bill nodded at his younger son and pulled Winnie towards the elevators. Once the doors closed behind them, Billy sat down in one of the chairs with a sigh.

"How's Gus?" Shawn asked as he sank down in a chair facing Gus' brother.

Billy sighed again and ran a hand over his face. "Mom and Dad told me that he looked bad, but I didn't think _bad_ was quite that bad."

Shawn remembered his own feelings when he had seen Gus the previous day, his face swollen, bandages everywhere, and totally unresponsive while around him the machines beeped and whirred away.

"Your Dad said the doctors were letting Gus wake up this morning?"

Billy nodded. "Yeah, that's what they told us, too. But it's not as if he was sitting up in bed, laughing and talking until they put him on sedation again."

"So he didn't really react?"

"It was hard to tell, Shawn. They said he'd be more aware that we were there, that he'd probably be conscious, but it's been hard to tell. His one eye that isn't swollen shut entirely was open a crack, but that's been it."

"Nothing else?" Shawn had to admit that his expectations upon the doctors letting Gus wake up had been higher.

"Well, I guess it's a bit hard to talk for him, since he's on a ventilator. Oh, and that tube going into his stomach through his nose also hinders his speech just a slight bit."

Billy's voice was sharp, and Shawn immediately recoiled. "Sorry."

Billy sighed again. "No, it's all right. It's just hard to see him like this. And when that doctor said he was probably going to be awake, I have to admit I expected a bit more."

Shawn was glad that he wasn't the only one.

"I think it was much harder on Mom." Billy continued. "She's barely holding it together. You know how she is about Gus."

"Yeah, I know. I got the firsthand treatment while you were still in Connecticut."

Billy shook his head. "You didn't honestly expect anything else, did you?"

"What, other than your mother placing the blame on me? No, I didn't. I was expecting that. And she's right, it was my fault that this happened to Gus. It always is. Only this time, it wasn't just a tight spot or me dragging him into something he didn't want. This time he nearly died."

Billy watched Shawn for a long moment, then he shook his head. "If you're expecting some kind of absolution about whether you're guilty or not, you're not going to get it from me."

Shawn hadn't expected Billy not to blame him, but still those words felt like a blow to the stomach. Of all the members of the Guster family, Billy was the only one aside from Gus that Shawn had always really gotten along with.

"I know. I didn't expect it."

"It sounded different."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Billy rolled his eyes with a half-smile. "Come on Shawn. Why else would you go on a guilt trip in front of me, other than your need to hear that it wasn't your fault? And you've got to understand one thing about Mom – she's not open to rational explanations right now. Her son got hurt, you were there, and while Gus is in a coma right now you got off with a few bruises. Of course she blames you. If Gus stubs his foot and breaks his toe while talking to you on the phone she'll blame you, and this is a whole different league altogether. And honestly, when she called me and told me what happened, my first reaction was to punch you."

"Guess I can be glad you don't live in Santa Barbara anymore."

Billy nodded. "You sure can be. But honestly, you don't want to tell me that it would be any different if things were the other way around." He pointed towards the ICU doors. "If it was you lying in there, I'd not be particularly keen on meeting your Dad, either."

"If I was lying in there right now, my Dad would probably spend his entire visiting times at my bedside, berating me for whatever it was that I did to end there. But that's totally beside the point, because it isn't me who's lying in there. It's Gus."

Billy nodded. "You're right. It's Gus. Gus is lying in the ICU right now, and it's Gus who is in a coma. That's what we've got to deal with, and as much as I maybe wanted to punch you, it wouldn't have helped anybody, either. Least of all Gus."

Shawn shrugged. "If it makes you feel any better, just go ahead. I'm in the hospital already, if you do it now it would at least save me a ride in the ambulance."

Billy shook his head again. "Of course I wanted to punch you when I first heard what happened. Shawn, it's my brother we're talking about, all right? When Mom told me some racist assholes had beaten him into a coma, I was as furious as I've ever been in my entire life. And when she told me then that you had been there and that you hadn't been hurt, I don't think I even listened to the rest of what she told me."

"I don't blame you."

"Yeah, but that's exactly the thing. Blame. I mean, after Mom told me all that, my first thought was that there had to be something you could have done to stop this. If you got off with a few bruises, you couldn't have struggled hard enough. You didn't do all you could."  
It were the exact same things Shawn's thoughts were circling about over and over again. Was there something he could have done? Had he really struggled hard enough? Shouldn't he have been able to do more?

If Billy had the same thoughts, there had to be something to it, right?

But Billy interrupted those thoughts as he continued, oblivious to Shawn's inner turmoil.

"With anybody else, I'd have probably kept thinking that. But I had a few hours on the airport to make up my mind."

Shawn raised his eyebrows. "Oh yeah?"

Billy shrugged. "Yeah. It was you, after all. For my entire childhood I've watched how my own big brother rather spent time with you than with me."

Shawn shrugged awkwardly. "You were two years younger. As a kid, that's a whole world. Doesn't change thing about the fact that he loves you."

"I know that, Shawn. But me and Gus, that's the whole biological brotherhood lottery. You and Gus, that's been by choice. And yes, you get him into trouble any given opportunity." Seeing that Shawn took a breath to reply, Billy shook his head. "No, it's true and we both know it. Ever since we were all kids, you've constantly gotten him into trouble. His first detention, his first broken curfew, his first smashed window, smoking a whole pack of cigarettes, his first drunken stupor – all that's been you dragging him into things. I know that my dear brother was always a willing participant, but it's always been on your incentive that he got into trouble in the first place."

That actually sounded a lot like something Mrs. Guster would say, and suddenly Shawn wasn't so sure anymore that he wanted to hear Billy's further reasoning. Not that he had any choice in the matter, because Billy simply continued talking.

"So there I was in the airport waiting lounge, trying to convince myself that you always get Gus into trouble, and that this time you had simply taken it completely and utterly over the top. And then I remembered that whenever you got him into trouble, you always did your damned best to get him out of trouble again, as well."

Shawn laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah? Well, I've always been more the kind of guy for damage control rather than damage prevention."

Billy shrugged. "That might be true. Probably is, if you say so yourself. But how many times did you try to take the blame when you and Gus had gotten into trouble?"

Shawn answered with a shrug of his own. "Countless times, I guess. I mean, my Dad was expecting me to get into trouble anyway, so I could as well _not_ disappoint his expectations for once. And for as long as I took the blame, your mother thought Gus was still her good little boy."

"Yeah. But that's the thing. No matter what Mom thinks, Gus is no longer the good little boy. He's no longer the slightly nerdy guy who'd follow his friend's lead everywhere. He's no longer the kid who agrees to smearing super-glue on his teacher's chair because you say it's a good idea. Gus is thirty years old, and he's one of the most reasonable and rational guys I know. He doesn't do anything without thinking about the consequences. He probably makes a plan for brushing his teeth on the way to the bathroom, for crying out loud! So whatever cases you're working on, Gus chooses to come along."

"Yeah, but maybe this time it was the wrong choice."

Billy shrugged again. His face was impassive, but there was a fierce gleam in his eyes. "Maybe, but it wasn't your decision."

"Maybe it should have been. Maybe I should have thought two steps ahead just for once and thought about the fact that a bunch of racists might go after Gus."

"But even if you didn't, I'm convinced Gus did. Shawn, Gus isn't stupid. When the two of you are trying to find a murderer, he knows that encountering the guy might become dangerous. And when the two of you are trying to find a bunch of racists, you can be sure that Gus is well aware of the possible dangers. It didn't stop him from working the case. In fact, I'm convinced that he didn't want this case to be any different especially because he's black. It was Gus' choice to work this case, and nobody else's."

Shawn shook his head. "So what? Musing on the airport convinced you that it's all Gus' fault?"

Billy rolled his eyes with another headshake. "No. I'm saying that up until the point when those guys overwhelmed the two of you in the office, it was Gus' conscious decision to work the case. You can blame yourself for all that you want, but once he wakes up, he's going to tell you the same."

Shawn bit his lip. "Only if his doctors aren't right about the possibility of brain damage."  
Billy ran a hand through his short hair with a sigh. "You know Gus. He's got so many of those little grey cells that you can kill off a whole lot of them and he'll still be able to spell all the big words. I'm going to keep my optimism on that until he wakes up. Mom is already worried sick enough for all of us, somebody has to keep up a more positive tone before we all go mad."

He rubbed his palms against the fabric of his jeans, then he looked up at Shawn again.

"What I'm trying to say is that while I know that you're prone to getting Gus into trouble, I also know that you'd never consciously put him into any danger. Not without his knowledge and consent. And Gus is clever enough to know when things get dangerous. You're not to blame for the fact _that_ it happened. And I can't give you any absolution on whether or not you're to blame for the fact that Gus is in a coma right now."

Billy sighed. "It's pretty easy, actually. Either there was something else you could have done to stop those guys, something you didn't do. If that is the case, you don't want to be in my vicinity if I ever get to know about it. Or, there was nothing you could have done. In that case you did everything you could, and there were simply too many of them. I can't give you any absolution Shawn, because in fact you're the only one who knows the answer to that question. If there was anything else you could have done to stop them, you'd know."

Billy shrugged again and got up from his chair. "And now I'd better go before my parents file a missing person report. Mom has a pretty short fuse these days. Am I going to see you this afternoon?"

"Think your Mom will let me visit Gus again?"

Billy shrugged. "From what I heard, your Dad convinced her that it's what Gus would want. So I guess the answer is yes."

"Then I'll see you later."  
Billy nodded and together the two walked over towards the bank of elevators and pressed the button. A car arrived shortly afterwards and they rode down into the lobby, where Billy took a turn to the left for the cafeteria to meet his parents. Shawn slowly walked over towards the main entrance of the hospital, thinking about what Billy had said.

Was it really that easy?

Would he really know if there had been anything else he could have done to help Gus?

It was exactly why he had been afraid to remember the details of the attack. He had been afraid to find that one little moment when he could have torn loose, when he could have done more to stop those guys from beating Gus nearly to death.

Rationally, his mind told him that he had done all he could.

But then why didn't it feel like that? Why did it still feel as if he was to blame for what had happened?

It had been Gus' choice to work the case despite the fact that it was more personal than the cases they had worked before, that was true. And Gus had wanted to work this case, that was also true. But if Shawn had stopped working the case after those racists had sent their first warning, then all this wouldn't have happened. Then it would not have come to that attack in the office in the first place.

So even though Billy had said it was an easy question with a simple answer, maybe it was not.

Shawn reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone as soon as he left the hospital. He turned it on, and after a moment a blinking sign on the screen told him that he had a new voicemail message. Shawn called his mailbox as he walked over towards his father's truck, where he could make out his father's form sitting behind the wheel, reading the paper.

The message had arrived a bit more than fifteen minutes ago. It was from Lassiter, and it was short.

_"We've found __Dylan Kincaid. He'll be at the station in half an hour."_

Shawn snapped his phone shut and sprinted the remaining distance over towards his father's truck.


	16. Flashes

I'm really sorry for flackign again and leaving you for so long without an update. I'm sorry. And as a belated Christmas present, and to wish you a happy new year, I give you two chapters at once.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 16 – ****Flashes**

Definitely a football player.

Those were Shawn's first thoughts when he saw Dylan Kincaid sitting on the chair in front of Lassiter's desk.

Your typical jock. He was even wearing the red and white team jacket, and he had a bored expression on his face as he listened to whatever it was Lassiter was saying to him.

Juliet had been waiting for Shawn at the station entrance, and she stuck close to his side as they approached Lassiter's desk. But while they were still too far away to actually hear a word Lassiter was saying, Shawn didn't pay any mind to Juliet. Neither to his father, who was walking on his other side. All he saw was the profile of Kincaid's face, the mocking raise of his eyebrow and the slight grin on his face as he listened to the detective's words.

He hadn't seen bulky guy's face, and he hadn't gotten close enough to him to see his eyes clearly. But the built was a perfect fit. Shawn felt his heart beat faster in his chest as they got closer. Seeing them approach, Lassiter raised his eyebrow for a moment, but his attention didn't shift away from Kincaid in front of him for long.

But their approach didn't go unnoticed for long. As they approached the desk and stepped into Kincaid's line of vision, the younger man turned his head to the side and looked up.

At that moment, Shawn knew.

He didn't need to hear Dylan Kincaid's voice to know that he was the guy.

It was right there in his eyes, the flicker of recognition. Not the _I know you from the newspaper_ kind of recognition. No, it was the _You're the guy whose friend's leg I broke_ kind of recognition.

It was just a flicker in Kincaid's eyes, but it was all Shawn needed to be absolutely sure. Dylan Kincaid was bulky guy, the guy who had broken Gus' leg. Unconsciously, Shawn's hands clenched into fists at his side and his whole body tensed.

Kincaid stared at Shawn for a long moment, and as soon as he had overcome the small shock of seeing Shawn standing there right in front of him, he tried to school his face into a neutral mask. Slowly, he turned back towards Lassiter, but the detective wasn't looking at him, he was looking at Shawn expectantly.

"Spencer?"

Shawn found it hard to take his eyes away from Kincaid and look at Lassiter. He just couldn't believe that the guy was just sitting there right in front of him. How could that be? How could Gus be lying in the hospital right now, hooked up to about a hundred machines that were keeping him alive, and the bastard who had helped bring him there was sitting in front of Shawn, with just the hint of a grin playing around his lips.

Shawn couldn't understand how this was possible. It wasn't fair, and while Shawn knew that life generally wasn't, surely such an unfairness couldn't just happen like this.

"Spencer!" Lassiter repeated, a bit more aggressive this time. "Anything you can tell us?"

Kincaid interrupted Lassiter with a rough hand gesture. "What's going on here? I thought I was here just to answer a few questions."

The deep and slightly rough voice had the same effect as fingernails on a chalkboard on Shawn. He physically flinched as he heard Kincaid's words.

_"Is that true? Do you care for this dirty piece of shit here?"_

Kincaid had asked that question just a few moments before he had jumped on Gus' leg, breaking the bone with that horrible, horrible sound that made Shawn's stomach churn.

Was Kincaid really that cocky and sure of himself that he thought he was safe, even though he had been brought to the police station just a little while ago? Was he that convinced he could get away with murder?

It was only a few seconds that passed after Kincaid's statement, but Shawn found himself unable to do anything but stare at the guy, stare at him as if he'd understand how this huge cosmic mess that had been his life for the past days if he only stared long enough.

Kincaid didn't meet his eyes directly, and after a short moment he turned back towards Lassiter with a short laugh.

"What's his problem? Why is he staring at me as if he was retarded?"

Shawn saw red.

All he could see was Kincaid's face, Kincaid who was sitting here as if nothing had happened and he didn't even know what all this was about. Kincaid who was pretending not to know why Shawn was even here. Kincaid who was sitting here while Gus was lying in a coma, fighting for his life.

With a roar of pure rage, Shawn threw himself at Kincaid. He didn't notice Juliet's startled gasp, or Lassiter jumping off his chair. He didn't even notice his father's quick reaction and the hands grabbing him, trying to pull him back. All he saw was Kincaid's face, and all he felt beside the pure rage running through his veins was a small glimmer of satisfaction as the shock about Shawn suddenly launching himself at him showed on his face.

Shawn wanted to hit him.

"Stop!"

He wanted to punch him in the face again and again until Kincaid knew what kind of agony he and his friends had put Gus through. He wanted to simply smash his fist into the man's face over and over again, and if he only did so long enough maybe his own pain would go away.

But he couldn't reach Kincaid.

No matter how much he struggled, no matter how much he strained to get close to the man who had done all these things to Gus, he couldn't reach him. There were hands holding him back, and voices yelling at him, saying words Shawn couldn't understand.

The hands were holding him back. They were wrapped tightly around his upper arms and stopped him from beating Kincaid in a bloody pulp.

Hands on his arms, holding him so tightly that it hurt, holding him back while Kincaid was sitting right in front of him, Kincaid who had broken Gus' leg with the full weight of his body behind it. And all Shawn had been able to do was watch while those hands had clawed at him, had held him back and forced him to look. He struggled, tried to get rid of those hands, tried to get free.

It was just like it had been at the office, the hands on his arms that were holding him so tightly that it hurt, rendering him unable to move.

"Shawn!"

Shawn felt the panic rise up in him, spreading upwards from his stomach like bile rising up in his throat. He couldn't breathe, wasn't getting enough air, and in a last desperate attempt he turned away, trying to shrug off the hands that were holding him.

"Let me go! Let me…I can't…"

"Shawn!"  
Suddenly the hands holding him back were gone and a blurry form pushed himself in between Kincaid and Shawn, effectively blocking his view on the man. Shawn blinked a few times, until his father's face came into focus.

"Shawn, snap out of it!"

Panting hard, Shawn slowly became aware of his father's hands, one on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, holding his head in place and forcing Shawn to look at him.

"Shawn, look at me."

After a few moments of trying to look past his father's form at Kincaid still cowering on the chair in front of Lassiter's desk, Shawn drew a deep breath and looked at his father.

"It's him." He croaked out. "Dad, he's the guy who broke Gus' leg."

"Okay. That's good Shawn. But you need to calm down now, okay?"

When Shawn didn't react immediately, Henry squeezed his shoulder once.

"Hey, are you listening to me, Shawn? I want you to let Lassiter and O'Hara handle this, all right? You're not going to have another go at the guy, do you understand me?"

Shawn gave a short nod. "All right."

"Good."

Slowly, the grip on his shoulder loosened as Henry let go of his son. Shawn drew a deep breath, his hand going up to rub at his right upper arm. For a man his age, his father still had a pretty strong grip. Henry surely hadn't wanted to hurt him, but he had gripped Shawn right where his arms were bruised from that night at the office.

His father was still standing in between Shawn and Kincaid, ready to jump in between should Shawn forget his word and make another attempt to go for Kincaid.

But Shawn forced himself to not even look at the man. Instead, he looked at Lassiter.

"It's him. He's one of the guys who beat Gus up."

"Are you sure?"

Shawn nodded. "Yes. I recognized his voice. He's the one who broke Gus' leg."

"All right. O'Hara, tell the Chief." Lassiter turned towards Kincaid. "Now I have a whole new lot of questions for you, Mr. Kincaid. Questions best asked in our interrogation room."

Kincaid looked at the head detective as if he had suddenly grown a second head.

"What? You said I was only here for a few questions! That I wasn't under arrest or anything!"

Lassiter was standing right next to Kincaid's chair, and the glare he cast at the young man was unearthly.

"Things change. You have just become a suspect in a case of attempted murder. And now get up!"

Lassiter reached for the younger man's arm and pulled him to his feet. Kincaid tried to shrug off the detective's hold, but Lassiter didn't let himself be shrugged off like that.

Shawn watched how Lassiter led Kincaid around the corner, down the corridor towards the waiting room. When they had vanished from sight, Shawn took a few steps back and sank down in the nearest chair with a loud sigh.

He suddenly felt exhausted, even though he hadn't done much. Maybe not sleeping a lot played into it as well, but somehow the knowledge that at least one of the people who had done this to Gus was sitting in an interrogation room now was a relief. And with relief came exhaustion.

"Shawn?"

Shawn slowly raised his head, wondering why it was so much more of an effort than it normally was. His father was standing in front of him, looking down at him with an expression that was strangely inexpressive about whatever was going on in his head.

"Yeah?"

"Questioning that guy is probably going to take a while."

Shawn shrugged. "I'll just wait."

"Shawn, as soon as they know anything new, they're going to call you."

"Yes, and if I stay here I'll save the city of Santa Barbara the costs of that phone-call. Besides, if I stay here, Lassiter won't accidentally forget to call."

"I'm not going to stick around here all day Shawn. I've got things to do."

"Feel free to leave Dad. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself."

"Yes, so it's rumoured. But you don't have a ride, and a strange aversion against public transport."

"It's not an aversion, it's a protective mechanism. Have you been on a bus recently?"

Henry shook his head. "Shall I drive you buy the office so that you can get that bike of yours?"

Shawn's head snapped up. "Did you just offer me a ride to get my bike?"

Henry shrugged uncomfortably. "Why not? It's not as if I could stop you from riding around on that thing, anyway."

Shawn was still trying to find the loophole in his father's promise. Because it just couldn't be that his father would voluntarily offer him a ride to retrieve his bike, or as Henry was fond of calling it, _that_ _thing_. There had to be an ulterior motive.

Maybe Henry wanted to sedate him as soon as he got into the car. Or he'd lock the doors of the truck and drive him somewhere where Shawn didn't want to go. There had to be something he was missing. But the choice was pretty easy. Either he was going to stay here at the station and end up stranded and in need of a ride sooner or later, or he'd go and get his bike back right now. It was only a ten minute ride to the office, he could be back quickly.

In time to see Lassiter questioning Dylan Kincaid.

That plan actually sounded pretty good. With a nod, Shawn got up from his chair.

"All right, then let's go get my bike."


	17. There's no wrong answer, just wrong

**Chapter 17 – ****There's no wrong answer, just wrong questions**

Shawn didn't want to go into the office. When his father dropped him in front of it so that he could get his bike, he was tempted for a short moment. But merely looking at the door, at the boarded up window made his heart beat faster in his throat and tightened his chest.

He didn't want to go in there.

Did crime scene crews clean up after collecting the evidence?

Shawn doubted that they did, and the last thing Shawn wanted to see now was whatever traces were left from that night in the office.

From the corner of his eye Shawn saw how his father's truck idled on the parking lot with the engine running, and only when Shawn straddled the bike and pulled out the keys did his father drive the truck back on the road.

Shawn thought that it was a small miracle that his helmet was still hanging from the handle where he had left it two nights ago, but he didn't question it. He simply put the helmet on and started the bike.

The drive back to the station didn't last long, but still to Shawn it felt like a small eternity. It was a strange feeling, to be alone on his bike.

He hadn't been alone since…well, since the hospital. Ever since then, his father had been around, always looming in the background to step in when he deemed necessary. Shawn would never say it out loud, but having his father around had actually been somewhat reassuring. Any other day, he'd have felt differently about his father tagging along with every step he made, but right now it felt different.

No small wonder that it did, what else could he expect after his world had been thrown upside down in just a few hours.

Right now Shawn wasn't quite himself. He was aware of that, but he couldn't really do anything against it. Ever since the hospital, his mind had been more or less foggy. Oh, he could still think straight, just…well, just not at all times. And he had lost it twice in twenty-four hours, the first time when he had stormed out of the ICU after the confrontation with the Gusters, and the second time earlier at the police station.

Both times his brain had simply shut down, and he had done things without wasting any conscious thought on them. It was disconcerting, a little like an out of body experience. But he simply didn't have a good control over himself since all this had happened to Gus. He wasn't quite himself, and as bad as that was, it was a slight relief to know that his father was around to stop him in case he lost it again.

But now Henry had left him on his own devices. Of course he was only one theoretical phone call away, but a lot of things had to happen for Shawn to call his father and tell him that he felt better if he was around. Thinking it was one thing, saying it out loud something totally different.

It was only going to the police station, after all.

Going to the police station and watching Lassiter question Dylan Kincaid.

He could do this. He didn't need his father around for it.

Shawn had been gone a bit more than twenty minutes when he stepped through the front doors of the police station again. This time, Shawn didn't walk up the stairs to the big office but took the corridor to his right which brought him to the interrogation rooms. There was a small observation room beside every interrogation room, the room where the infamous one-sided mirrors led to. The observation room next to Interrogation B was empty and the door open, so Shawn gave a short knock on the door of the other observation room and entered.

Inside, he found Juliet, Chief Vick and – much to his surprise – FBI Agent Littleton standing in front of the one-sided mirror, looking into the interrogation room. All three turned their heads as Shawn stepped into the small room and closed the door behind him.

"Mr. Spencer."

"Chief. Special Agent. Jules." Shawn waved a vague greeting at the three others in the room, then turned to look into the interrogation room where Dylan Kincaid was sitting on one of the two chairs, his hands folded on the table in front of him, and his left leg nervously twitching up and down relentlessly.

"Has he said anything yet?"

"No." Vick stepped up beside Shawn and looked through the one-way mirror with her arms crossed in front of her chest. "Detective Lassiter hasn't started questioning him yet. Now that you've identified him as one of the attackers, we've processed him as a suspect. We've taken his prints, a DNA swab, and we're in the process of getting a warrant signed to search Kincaid's apartment and pull his phone records. With any luck, will find something there. Boots that match some of the prints we found, or clothes with traces from some of the victims on them."

"What about his girlfriend?"

"McNabb and Parker are on their way to the fraternity house as we speak. The Dean has advised the fraternity to cooperate with our investigation, so we're hoping somebody there can give us her full name. If she really is his girlfriend, they're bound to know her, and I want this covered from all angles. Just in case he decides not to say anything."

Shawn nodded. "Or in case he lawyers up."

"He has been read his rights. So far, he's not asked for a lawyer being present, even after we explicitly told him he had the right for one."

With a frown, Shawn turned towards the Chief. "Why would he do that? He knows he's a murder suspect, Lassiter told him so."

Vick shrugged. "It happens more often than you think. Perps are often convinced that as long as they don't give anything away themselves, nobody will be able to prove anything. It's ridiculous, really. They all watch CSI on TV, but nobody thinks that at least part of what they show there is real. They all think they'll be the first to leave no forensic evidence behind."

"Yeah, it might be a good thing that not every criminal knows about Locard."

"And what would you know about Locard's exchange principle?"

Shawn turned to find Agent Littleton standing right behind him, looking straight at him with his square glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. The suit he was wearing today was hanging loosely off his small and scrawny frame, his tie was askew and his hair was again combed in that ridiculous manner across the balding patch atop of his head. It looked as if someone had forgotten to inform him about the official FBI dress code – sharp, dark, menacing. Littleton looked neither, he looked as if somebody had dragged him forcefully out from behind a computer terminal.

"What do you mean?"

Littleton gave a small shrug, and the movement caused his jacket to open slightly, revealing the firearm holstered on Littleton's left hip. No matter how geeky he looked, he had been issued a handgun. That meant he probably wasn't one to mess with, despite all appearances.

"I was just wondering how come that a medium, a psychic, is aware of something like Locard's exchange principle. It sounds highly unusual."

Shawn just shrugged. "I do read at times. And my father was a cop. So no, it's not highly unusual, Special Agent Littleton. Besides, it's not as if Locard's exchange principle was a big government secret. It's pure and simple deductive logic. Every contact leaves a trace. Every perp leaves something at the crime scene, and he takes something from the crime scene with him when he leaves. I've worked for the police for over two years now, I've seen it used in every case. Just because I know the official shiny and flashy name of the thing doesn't make this _highly unusual_, you know? But speaking of highly unusual, why are you still hanging around? I haven't seen you ever since your presentation a few days ago. Has the FBI come to take credit should Kincaid confess?"

Littleton didn't rise to the bait, he only smiled.

"I'm going to stay here for as long as this investigation is fresh and ongoing. And for as long as there's the possibility that new evidence will put this crime into the jurisdiction of the Bureau, I'm not denying the possibility that the FBI is going to take over this case. But as of now, I'm merely here as an observer. I was present at the crime scene in your office as well, Mr. Spencer, but at that time you were already in the hospital. However, I've been busy trying to get a clearer picture of what kind of an organization we're dealing with here."

"Oh, a clearer picture. Now that is interesting. And, what kind of organization are we dealing with here?" Shawn pointed through the window. "Racist Jocks United?"

"Mr. Spencer!" Chief Vick's voice was harsh, though not loud. "Agent Littleton is only doing his job. If Kincaid is involved in this, and if he's part of a larger organization, then his knowledge will be an invaluable asset. But for now, maybe we should all focus on the interrogation."

Shawn looked into the interrogation room in time to see Lassiter open the door and step through. The head detective wordlessly closed the door behind himself, pulled out the second chair and sat down so that he was facing Kincaid.

On the table between them was a recorder, and Lassiter reached out to turn it on.

"It's Friday, May 16th, 12:30 pm. Head Detective Carlton Lassiter questioning Mr. Dylan Kincaid, resident of 314 Sherman Park, Santa Barbara. Mr. Kincaid, you have been informed of your right to have a lawyer present during this questioning?"

Kincaid nodded.

"Please answer verbally for the tape, Mr. Kincaid."

Kincaid rolled his eyes. "Yes, I have been told that I can have a lawyer. I just don't see why, I didn't do anything."

"We'll get to that in a moment. Do you wish to have a lawyer present at this time?"

Kincaid shook his head, but seeing that Lassiter was about to draw breath he rolled his eyes again. "No, I don't need a lawyer."

"Good. It's my duty to inform you that you have the right to ask for a lawyer at any time during this questioning."

"Yeah, whatever. Can we just get it over and done with, I've got things to do."

Shawn felt himself tense up as he watched the younger man's nonchalant and bored attitude through the window. Could it really be that Kincaid was convinced that nothing could be proven to him? Could he really be that stupid?

Lassiter opened a file he had brought to the interrogation room.

"Mr. Kincaid, you are here because you have been identified by a witness as the attacker in a case of attempted murder that took place two nights ago, on the evening of Wednesday 14th, at ca. 10:30 pm."

"That's ridiculous." Kincaid laughed. "I didn't do anything, and I didn't try to murder no one."

Lassiter nodded. "All right, what can you tell me about your whereabouts that night?"

Kincaid shrugged. "I don't know. Guess I was at home, studying."

"Anybody who can verify that?"

"I live alone."

"So you don't have an alibi for the time of the attack you're being accused of?"

Kincaid shrugged again. "I guess not. I didn't know I needed one."

"Well, now you know better."

Kincaid leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. The slight grin was still on his face.

"So why don't you tell me what it is you're suspecting me of in the first place. All I know is that you ask me to come here to answer a few questions, and suddenly you're telling me I'm a murder suspect. What is it I'm supposed to have done?"

"You have been identified as one of four people who attacked a police consultant on Wednesday night and beat him nearly to death."

Kincaid laughed, and Shawn had already made two steps towards the door before a hand closed around his shoulder and pulled him back.

"Not now, Mr. Spencer."

Shawn looked into Chief Vick's face for a long moment, but her resolute expression wasn't wavering.

"Let detective Lassiter do the questioning."

Shawn drew a deep breath, but then he turned back towards the window and Vick's grip on his shoulder loosened as she let go. Kincaid was still slouching in his chair, grinning at Lassiter.

"A police consultant? What, like that psychic who gave me that retarded stare earlier?"

"So you know Mr. Spencer?"

Kincaid shrugged. Shawn wanted to punch him, now more than ever.

"I've seen him in the papers, I guess."

"You guess."

Kincaid nodded. "Sure."

"Did you also happen to see his associate Mr. Guster in the papers?"

That got a shake of Kincaid's head as an answer. "Can't say I did. Why? He the guy who was attacked?"

"Indeed."

"The poor man. I hope he's okay."

Shawn's hands were clenched so tightly into fists that his nails dug into his palms painfully. He was so focussed on Kincaid and Lassiter in the interrogation room that he didn't even notice how Juliet put herself between him and the door.

Lassiter didn't even deign Kincaid's last remark with an answer.

"Mr. Kincaid, can you tell us about your whereabouts of last Sunday?"

"Last Sunday? What? The guy get attacked back then, too? Seems like he's making a habit of it."

Shawn saw how the detective's jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth. To Kincaid, Lassiter's face might seem impassive, if slightly annoyed, but Shawn saw clearly how he was struggling to keep his anger down.

"Just answer the question, Mr. Kincaid. Where have you been on Sunday the 14th, in the late evening hours, say after 10 pm?"

"Last weekend? I don't know. I have classes on Monday, so I probably was at home."

"At home. Let me guess. You were alone, again, without anybody to verify that."

"I guess so. But last I checked, it's no crime."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that. What about Monday 8th, also in the late evening hours?"

Kincaid shrugged. "I really can't tell you. It's been so long ago. But probably I was at home…"

"At home, alone, with nobody to verify that. I understand. Let me guess. On Thursday 4th you were –"

"At home. In my apartment. Alone." Kincaid grinned. "I'm so sorry that I'm not able to help you with your investigation."

A small sneer of his own showed on Lassiter's face. "Oh, but don't be too fast Mr. Kincaid. We haven't even gotten started yet. Asking for your alibi has only been the first step. Procedure, you know. We simply need your statement for the file, so that later on the DA knows when exactly you stopped telling the truth."

"What's that supposed to mean?" There was a different not in Kincaid's voice right now. It wasn't quite one of fear, but Kincaid was definitely surprised.

Lassiter closed the file in front of him, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"That's supposed to mean that now we're going to wait. One of the victims of the crime you're suspected of identified you as one of the attackers. So we took your prints, we took your DNA, and we got a warrant to search your apartment and your car. The results might take a while to come in, but until then we're going to wait."

"You're searching my apartment?"

Lassiter nodded. "Yes. I'd love to do it myself, actually, but I'm here with you. So we're just going to have to wait."

"You can't just search my apartment!"

Lassiter shrugged. "I got a judge who says we can. I value his word a slight bit more than yours right now."

Shawn turned towards Vick in slight confusion. "I thought the warrant hadn't gone through yet?"

"It will probably have by now. It was only a question of finding a judge to sign it, not a question of whether or not it'll come through. You did identify him, that's grounds enough for a warrant. I had a team on standby in front of Kincaid's apartment, as soon as the judge signed the papers they had orders to go in. My guess is that they've been searching it for the past few minutes now."

"Which reminds me," Juliet threw in. "I'm going to go see whether we already have Kincaid's phone records."

She left the small observation room and silently closed the door behind herself. Shawn turned back towards the interrogation in the other room.

Kincaid was still trying not to let anything show, but his behaviour was getting a slight bit more nervous. Not that Shawn had needed any additional proof. He knew for a fact that Kincaid was bulky guy, and he knew for a fact that he had been involved in those other three murders as well.

But he also knew that it wasn't enough for the police. The police needed proof.

And Lassiter knew that just as well as Shawn did.

"Do you really think you're going to beat the system? We're going to take your computer, too. And we have experts who can find out everything you've done with that computer. Every file you ever opened, every website you ever visited, back to the day that your computer was born in Taiwan. If we find anything suspicious there, it's no good news for you. But it gets even worse. Just so you know. We have DNA from the scenes of the crimes, we have very clear boot prints from the last scene, we have fibres all over the four victims, and we have a witness identifying you and putting you on the scene of the crime. Do you really think you considered it all? Are you sure we're not going to find some articles of clothing in your apartment or car that have the same fibres as the ones found on the victims? Are we maybe going to find a pair of boot that is an exact match to the boot prints we found in the office where the attack took place two days ago?"

Kincaid drew a breath, but didn't say anything. A small smile showed on Lassiter's face, but it was gone again quickly.

"Did you know that even if you scrub the soles of a pair of boots clean of…let's say yellow paint. Even if you do that, our forensic experts can still prove that it was there. And even more than that. They can find out the exact type of paint that has been scrubbed off that pair of boots. If we can compare that to the paint that was found on a crime scene, we can put the owner of that boot on the scene where the paint was spilled."

Kincaid shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "So what? There's a lot of paint around."

Lassiter nodded. "Sure there is. It's circumstantial evidence, and that alone probably wouldn't be enough for a conviction. But you'd be surprised at all the things our forensic experts can find. For example, did you know that if you scratch somebody, for example in a fight, or when you're trying to get free from somebody's hold, it leaves skin cells under the fingernails? It's astounding, science these days. Just a few skin cells, and that's enough to match the DNA of the person who was scratched to, let's say a DNA swab taken from a suspect. And do you know what else? DNA is not circumstantial evidence. DNA is pretty hard evidence. DNA, in fact, is enough to get somebody convicted."

Kincaid shrugged again, but this time the movement was a lot more tense than it had been before. Lassiter noticed it, too, if the slight raise of his eyebrow was any indication. And he obviously wasn't finished yet.

"But if that wasn't enough already, there's also other evidence that can tie a suspect to a crime. Three of the four victims we're talking about were stabbed." Lassiter frowned disapprovingly. "Very messy. Blood simply gets everywhere, you know? Clothes, gloves, shoes, everywhere. And the weird thing about blood is that its existence can be proven for a long, long time. Victim DNA on the clothing of a suspect, let me tell you that that's really, really hard evidence."

Kincaid was sweating now, though Shawn knew from experience that it was anything but warm in the interrogation room. But still he wasn't saying a word, he kept on staring at Lassiter in what he probably thought was a hard and relentless way. But it was his body language that was giving him away – he was getting nervous.

Lassiter leaned back in a fake relaxed pose and sighed.

"Let me tell you something about Spencer, our resident psychic, and Mr. Guster, his associate. You know, the one who was attacked. They have been working as consultants for the police department for over two years now. And they're a pain in my ass."

Kincaid laughed, and Lassiter joined in.

"Yes, it's true. Spencer especially. Always sticking his nose in things that aren't any of his business. Messing around with police work. Getting involved with things he shouldn't be involved with. And Guster? Always tagging along, always following Spencer around like a lost puppy. If I had my will, I'd shoot him."  
Kincaid laughed again, but still he didn't say a word, so Lassiter continued.

"I mean, Spencer I understand. I know where that's coming from. But Guster? Always right behind that idiot, like a little dog wagging its tail. Not once thinking for himself."

Shawn knew why Lassiter was saying these things. He knew that he didn't mean them the way Kincaid understood them. Not that every word of his was a lie, but on a rational level Shawn knew to take the detective's words with a grain of salt. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't help but clench his hands into fists, and he couldn't help how his heart sped up in his chest.

He could take Lassiter badmouthing himself.

It was Lassiter badmouthing Gus that he had trouble with.

It was a good thing that Lassiter was in another room now, because Shawn wasn't sure that he'd be able to hold himself back if that wasn't the case.

"Not once thinking for himself, always blindly following Spencer's lead." Lassiter continued.

"They're like that." Kincaid grumbled.

Shawn expected Lassiter to ask a follow-up question, or to disagree with him, but Lassiter nodded.

"It's gotta be hard." The detective continued. "I mean, just imagine getting away with three counts of murder. The police are stumped, they don't make any progress on the case. None at all. It has to be a great feeling. If I can get away with murder, I can get away with practically anything, right?"

Lassiter laughed. "And then a _psychic detective_ comes along. A psychic detective and his sidekick. I mean, the least I can expect as a murderer is that when I'm caught, it's by the police, right? Not by a psychic idiot and his sidekick. I has to be strange, feeling them close in. Who wants to be caught by a moron and his sidekick? The police can't catch you. The almighty FBI has no clue what's going on. And then those two come along. Gosh, that has to be so hard on your self esteem. Makes you wonder, right? What did I do wrong that even those two idiots are hot on my trail? Am I maybe not as good as I thought I was? Did my friends do anything wrong, did they do anything I don't know about? Could it be possible that a psychic sleuth and his friend, his _black_ friend, are so much cleverer than me? Am I more stupid than those two guys? Am I more stupid than a black pharmaceutical representative?"

"They got what they deserved!"

Kincaid slammed his palms on the desk, and Shawn found that he actually flinched at the unexpected outbreak. But Kincaid didn't even seem to be aware that there were others watching, or that there was a recording device right in front of him, recording everything incriminating he was going to say? But Kincaid only had eyes for Lassiter as he leaned forward and pointed a finger at the detective.

"They both got what they deserved! We gave them a clear warning, and they just couldn't stay out of it! Showing up at the fraternity house like nothing had happened, what were they thinking? If they're not able to listen to a warning, the lesson needs to be driven home! That nigger got what he deserved, and you know what? I'm proud of it! I'm proud of putting him in his place! I'm not going to go to prison because some idiot and his nigger friend can't stop snooping around!"

Lassiter leaned forward and stared hard into Kincaid's eyes for a long moment. "No. You're going to prison because you just confessed to attempted murder."

Kincaid froze in place, then his eyes went down to the recorder between him and the detective, and with a roar of rage he swooped the device off the table. Immediately, the door to the interrogation room opened and two uniformed officers ran into the room, pulling Kincaid back and slapping a pair of cuffs on him.

Dylan Kincaid struggled to free himself for a few seconds, then he sank back into his chair and glared at Lassiter.

"I want to see a lawyer!"

Lassiter nodded and got up from his chair. "You're definitely going to need one."

The detective calmly picked up the file from the desk, bent down to retrieve the recorder – which was still intact – then he turned around and left the interrogation room.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	18. Who said you didn't need a psychic

**Chapter 18 – Who said you didn't need a psychic detective for this case?**

"We've got his phone records." Juliet waved a stack of papers in the direction of Shawn and the Chief as they approached her desk. "Landline and cell phone. I'm still going through the numbers, but we have a name on the girlfriend. The cell phone number of a Sue Derringer is the most frequently dialled number from Kincaid's cell phone. She's a sociology student in her second year, with an apartment in one of the dormitories on campus. I've given the address to McNabb and Parker, they're on their way to pick her up and bring her here."

Vick nodded. "Very good. Let me know when she's brought to interrogation."

"Of course Chief."

While the two women talked, Shawn curiously picked up the phone records Juliet had put down on the desk. Juliet had marked some of the numbers with a yellow marker, probably those numbers Kincaid had dialled often enough so that they stood out. And Kincaid's cell phone provider had been one of the kind providers, one of those who put the names of the phone numbers owners right next to the number.

"Mr. Spencer!"

Shawn looked up. "Chief?"

"Do I need to remind you that you are no longer working the case?"

Shawn drew a breath to reply, but Vick cut him off. "I'm serious about this. Your official consultancy in this case ended the moment you and Mr. Guster were attacked. You're an official witness now, and as such I cannot let you handle any evidence. Once we have all of the perpetrators, I don't want any of those guys getting off on a technicality. Do I make myself clear?"

"As clear as the sky during a spring sunrise at the Mexican border."

Vick raised her eyebrows with a frown. "Mr. Spencer?"

"You've never seen the sky during a spring sun…"

"Mr. Spencer!"

Shawn sighed. "It's very clear." He put the papers down on Juliet's desk. "No evidence for me."

Vick nodded. "Good. O'Hara, I'll be in my office."  
"Sure Chief."

Vick turned around and went into her office. Juliet sank back down in her desk chair with a sigh and picked up the phone records again.

"I'm sorry, Shawn. But the Chief is right, it would be a feast for every defence lawyer if they got to know that you handled evidence."

"That's all right, Jules. I understand. And believe me, I don't want that guy to get off on a technicality, either."

He put his helmet under his arm.

"I should be going anyway. Visiting hours at the hospital starts soon."

Juliet put the phone records down and looked at Shawn. "How is Gus?"

"Still the same. It'll take a few days until there's news."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I should be getting back to this. We already found this girl Sue on Kincaid's phone records, with any luck we'll also find the other two guys. But he made a lot of calls, so I got a whole mountain of numbers to search through."

Shawn nodded. "Sure thing. Just one question?"

Juliet raised her eyebrows, but nodded. "Sure."

"What kind of car does Kincaid drive?"

A frown showed on Juliet's face before she started flipping through the papers on her desk. "None, as far as I know. Why do you ask?"  
Shawn shrugged. "I was just wondering. Lassiter said during the interrogation that they were going to search Kincaid's apartment and car. So I figured he had one. I thought, if I knew what model it was I could try to remember whether I saw it around on the parking lot that night."

"I really think Kincaid doesn't have a car."

"Then why would Lassiter say they were going to search it?"

Juliet shrugged. "The DMV took a while to answer back when we sent in our request. He probably just didn't know, and in the case of a murder suspect it's standard to search apartment and car. So I guess he was just assuming Kincaid had a car. But no." She finally located the piece of paper she had been looking for. "No, Dylan Kincaid doesn't have a car registered under his name. He owned a 1989 Ford until about six months ago, but it was totalled in a traffic accident. No injuries, but the old car was a goner."

Shawn nodded. "Ah, okay. Well, thanks Jules. Then I guess it was just a misunderstanding. You'll let me know if you find out anything?"

"Sure Shawn. And you call if there's news about Gus."

Shawn nodded and with his helmet under his arm he walked out the police station. All the way towards the front doors, Shawn had to fight the urge to run out of the building and to his bike. Instead he walked slowly and determinedly, not meeting anybody's eyes so that nobody would feel compelled to talk to him and stop him. He didn't have any time to waste.

Finally he had reached the parking lot and quickly straddled his bike and put on his helmet. For a moment, Shawn hesitated in that position.

He checked his watch. The afternoon visiting hours in the ICU started in a little more than half an hour. And Shawn didn't want to miss seeing Gus. Even if it was only fifteen minutes of staring at Gus' motionless form lying in that bed in the ICU. Even if it was the single most horrific way to spend fifteen minutes of his day.

It was still seeing Gus.

Shawn hated feeling helpless, and he couldn't remember feeling more helpless than during those fifteen minutes the previous day.

But it was seeing Gus. And it was the reassurance that Gus was still alive.

It had been big enough a fight to grant him that much, and Shawn still didn't know what his father had told Mrs. Guster to make that happen. It couldn't have been easy to convince Gus' mother while she was in full fretting mode, but somehow his father had done it.

Shawn hated to miss the visit to Gus this afternoon.

In fact, the decision not to go to the hospital was tearing him apart.

And Mrs. Guster wouldn't let him live it down. Probably she'd never let him in to see Gus again, for as long as he was still in the hospital, and probably also afterwards

But Shawn had to do something else first.

In fact, he had to do it right now. Before the police got there first. Because sooner or later they were going to figure it out. In fact, Shawn was surprised that Juliet hadn't figured it out immediately. But she wasn't stupid, and Shawn was sure that it wasn't going to take her much longer to see it.

He didn't want to wait around until the police figured it out. And Chief Vick had told him explicitly that he wasn't part of the investigation anymore.

But that didn't matter so much, because he didn't want to wait for the police on that one.

If he was right, he had an idea who another of the two guys from the office could be. Maybe even the one who had kicked Gus in the head.

Shawn started the engine of his bike and pulled it out of the parking lot. It was a twenty minute drive from the police station. Twenty minutes, then he'd know for sure.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Juliet asked herself how somebody could make so many phone calls.

Dylan Kincaid had classes to attend, after all. Study hours, library researches. Then again, he went to college on a football scholarship and his grades were…mediocre, to say the least. So probably his time was filled with football training, tactical meetings, game preparation. But still.

When did he find the time to make this many phone calls between that?

That guy was worse than her friend Eileen in Miami, and Eileen was practically attached to her phone during all waking hours.

She'd be sitting with those lists until late in the night, that much she already knew. And she didn't exactly expect help anytime soon. Kincaid was still waiting for his lawyer to arrive, which technically left Lassiter with time on his hands to help her sift through this information.

And she might just ask her partner for a little help. If she wanted to have her head ripped off her body and her remains sent to her family in tiny little boxes, she might just ask Lassiter for help.

Her partner had been in the break room to get a coffee earlier, and his mood had been unearthly. Now, Juliet hadn't seen the interview with Kincaid, but there was one thing being a cop had taught her, and not only since she had come here – sometimes, the worst interrogations were the ones that led to a confession. Confessions often brought things to light that you didn't really want to know, and much less hear. Of course every confession was a success, and Juliet was honest enough with herself to admit that she considered every confession a success she had helped bring forth.

But confessions also often gave an insight into a criminal's mind that a cop could do without. She didn't think Lassiter was immune to that, either. He just had his own way of dealing with it. And Juliet O'Hara was much too clever to risk ending up on the receiving end of one of Carlton Lassiter's famous lashing outs. Been there, done that, got the tinnitus.

Besides, it was only a question of minutes until Buzz and his partner would bring in Sue Derringer. Juliet doubted that she'd get to lead that interrogation, and that was fine with her. Lassiter had all the information from his interrogation with Kincaid, let him do the follow up interrogation as well.

But that left her with those phone records.

And the question how on earth a man in his early twenties, with classes to attend, a fraternity membership, a girlfriend and a social life could make so many phone calls.

But Juliet knew the drill.

Sift through the numbers.

Sort them by frequency of calls.

Find out the names and addresses of the people who own the numbers, and the relationship that the suspect has to the people he called.

Pick the numbers the suspect called most often first, then work your way through the list.

Check even the hang-ups.

With a sigh, Juliet took a sip of her coffee – which was at room temperature by now – and continued to work.

Five minutes later, she lost her focus on typing the name of one of the people Kincaid had called into her computer as a shrill voice started yelling through the station. She looked up just in time to see Buzz McNabb and his partner Alan Parker lead a cuffed woman in her early twenties down the corridor towards the interrogation rooms. The woman's blond hair fell down over her shoulders, and a pair of huge silver loops dangled from her earlobes as she struggled from side to side, as if that could magically make the cuffs that were holding her hands behind her back disappear. Juliet had the feeling that all through the station, windowpanes were rattling in their fixtures from the frequency of her shrill cries.

"I told you I want a lawyer!"

The woman who had to be Sue Derringer, was yelling those words at McNabb at a volume that suggested he was actually half a mile away from her, and not just a few inches. The young cop actually flinched, but other than that showed no obvious reaction to those words. Juliet couldn't help but be a little proud that McNabb was finally starting to develop a cop-face.

"I told you we were going to call your lawyer, Miss."

"I want him now! You have no right to drag me here!"

Buzz cast a helpless glance at his partner, and together the two of them led the young woman down the corridor. Her yells didn't let up, they only grew more distant as the three rounded a corner and vanished from sight. Juliet picked up her phone and called the extension for Chief Vick's office to let her know that Sue Derringer had arrived.

For once, she was actually a little glad that she didn't have to lead that particular interrogation. If there was one thing Juliet hated even more than interrogating a hysterical woman who insisted on yelling as the preferred method of communication, then it was interrogating somebody who had lawyered up before the interrogation had even begun.

And though Juliet hated to admit it, Lassiter was better at dealing with lawyers and unwilling interrogation subjects than she was, though she had caught up over the past months. And as personal as this case had become, she was glad that Lassiter seemed to be in a foul mood already. That meant Sue Derringer wouldn't have a comfortable interrogation, no matter if she had lawyered up or not.

So Juliet buried her nose back in the phone records, her fingers working the lists and the keys of her computer as her brain tried to find the right dots to connect.

Of course she was focussing her attention around the times of the attacks right now, working her way from there, but even if she only took the actual days of the attacks, she still had far too many numbers to search through for it to be easy. What had happened to college these days that left students with so much time to talk on the phone?

Juliet had managed to check another five numbers on the list when suddenly the phone on her desk started ringing. Without looking up from her lists, she reached out and picked up the receiver.

"Detective O'Hara."

"Detective, it's Henry Spencer."

Juliet frowned and put down her pen as she straightened up in her chair. She would have expected a call from inside the station anytime. Lassiter, the Chief, the front desk, Dispatch, all that. Even some calls from outside the station. What she wouldn't have expected was for Shawn's father to call the station, or her extension. He had never done that before.

"Mr. Spencer, is anything wrong?"

There was a moment of silence in the line, and Juliet wondered whether Shawn's father had hung up on her. She wouldn't put it past him. Not that she had had many dealings with the man in the past, but Shawn's father remained a mystery to her. From the little she knew about Henry Spencer, he seemed to be the polar opposite of his son. Had Juliet not known that those two were related, she wouldn't have guessed it.

And to be totally honest, the man intimidated her. She had come to Santa Barbara long after his retirement, but she knew his reputation from the time he had been on the force. He had been a good cop, a very good cop, and his gruff and not no-nonsense attitude had her always worried that she was going to say the wrong thing or sound like a stupid girl rather than a capable detective. In a way, Henry Spencer reminded her a lot of Lassiter, though by now she knew how to read her partner. Shawn's father was another matter entirely.

But despite Juliet's musings, Henry Spencer had not hung up on her.

"I don't know if anything is wrong. Shawn isn't answering his phone, and I was wondering whether he was still around. Karen and Lassiter don't answer their phones."

"They're in an interrogation. But Shawn isn't here, he left about half an hour ago. He wanted to go to the hospital to visit Gus."

"That's why I'm calling." Was it her, or had the tone of Henry Spencer's voice gotten gruffer? He could hardly expect her to know why he was calling, could he?

"I was just on my way home from some errands when I got a call from Gus' father." Henry continued. "Shawn hasn't shown up for visiting hours. Needless to say that Gus' parents are anything but excited about that. I wanted to make sure that he hadn't forgotten about it over the suspect interrogation."

He didn't sound as if he believed that to be a possibility himself. Juliet sighed.

"No, the interrogation ended a few minutes before Shawn left. The suspect confessed."

Another moment of silence before Henry Spencer spoke again.

"Did Shawn say explicitly that he wanted to go to the hospital?" There was a note of suspicion in his voice now.

"Yes, Mr. Spencer. He said he had to leave, and that visiting hours in the ICU would start soon."

"Yes, but did he say that he was actually going there?"

Now Juliet was confused. "What difference does it make?"

"With Shawn, it might make all the difference in the world, detective."

"Well…no. He said just that. That he had to leave, and that visiting hours would start soon. The context was clear. Maybe he doesn't answer his phone because he arrived at the hospital right after Mr. Guster called you."

Juliet could hear Henry Spencer sigh. "It doesn't take him half an hour to get from the station to the hospital. Not even in really bad traffic. Not on that bike."

"So what are you saying? That Shawn is in trouble?"

"Isn't he always?" Another sigh, this one sounding exhausted. "Was there anything else you talked about before he left? Anything at all?"

Juliet thought for a moment. "Well, Chief Vick told him that he couldn't handle any evidence or see into any files about the case now that he's a witness."

"Was there any reason for her to say that?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Spencer?"

"Did he handle any evidence? Did he try to read any files?" His voice sounded exasperated now.

Slowly, Juliet got the feeling that she was missing the entire point of this conversation, because Henry Spencer's questions didn't make sense to her. Right now, her questions probably made her look anything but the capable investigator. She definitely wasn't able to think the same amount of steps ahead that Henry Spencer was right now.

"We pulled our suspect's phone records, Shawn picked up those. But he didn't look at them for more than a few seconds Mr. Spencer. Then he asked about the suspect's car and left. That's been all, really."

"Wait, wait, wait." Juliet resisted the urge to stand to attention at his barked command. "What's that about a car?"

"He asked whether our suspect had a car. Lassiter must have said something about the warrant covering the suspects apartment and car, and Shawn asked what model it was to see if he recognized it."

"So you gave him the model and that was the end of the conversation?"

Juliet had no idea where this conversation was going. But she also had the feeling that not answering Henry Spencer's question was not an option. Even if she hung up now, he'd come to the station and get the answers he wanted.

"I told him that the suspect didn't have a car. Hasn't had one for over six months now. I double-checked it, because Shawn was confused why Lassiter would mention it in the interrogation, but Lassiter didn't know."

This time, the pause that followed was extremely long, and Juliet wondered what Shawn's father could possibly think about for that long. There wasn't that much to think about, right? She had answered Shawn's question, that was it. But Henry Spencer seemed to think differently.

"Detective, are you still working on those phone records?"

Juliet sighed. "Yes, they're extensive."

"I want you to pick up the printout that Shawn saw."  
"Why?" Despite the fact that she didn't understand, Juliet found herself reaching for the page.

"Because I don't think Shawn was asking about the car because Lassiter mentioned it. I think he saw something on those phone records."

Juliet frowned and looked down at the page in her hands. "You mean he got a psychic vision?"

"Just because my son is a psychic doesn't mean he's _blind_, detective. Shawn is perfectly able to see something obvious if it's in front of his eyes, even without help from the spirits. Do you have the printout?"

"Yes, I have it. It's the suspect's landline." Which she hadn't yet checked because she had been busy with the cell phone records

"Good. Look for anything that has to do with cars."

Juliet scanned the list of names on that page. "There's nothing there, Mr. Spencer. I got names to all the numbers, and none of them has anything to do with cars."

Henry sighed again, clearly impatiently this time.

"Then you have to look closer, detective. Check the dates of the attacks, the days before the attacks. Are there any numbers he called on all four days, any numbers he called more than once on those days?"

"That guy has been surgically attached to his phone, Mr. Spencer. There's a whole bunch of numbers."

"Then go through them."

Juliet shook her head, but there was something in Henry Spencer's voice that made her curious, that made her want to do as he said and check the numbers. She knew most of them from the cell phone records already, and the phone company had provided the names the numbers were registered under, which made her job easier.

"His girlfriend. He called her on all days where an attack took place, more than once. The fraternity house. A fraternity brother called Paul Winston, whose alibis we already checked during our preliminary investigation. A man called Benjamin Bratner. His…"

"Ben Bratner?" Henry's voice sounded excited as he interrupted her.

"Yes, Benjamin Bratner. That's what it says here. Why?"

"How often did your suspect call that number, detective?"

"He always called it either the day of the attack or the day before. And now answer my question, Mr. Spencer. Why do you think that this number is so important? The suspect called a lot of people on these days. Why should Shawn know this Benjamin Bratner?"

"A lot of people know Ben Bratner. Or Benny B's."  
Juliet had never heard either name. "Is that a bar?"

"No. It's a repair shop downtown."

And suddenly the information clicked in place. Juliet put the list down as she reached for her purse.

"And you think that's where Shawn went?"  
"I'm worried that he did, yes. Detective, I've got to go…"

"No!" Juliet was surprised at the commandeering tone of her own voice.

"What?" It seemed Shawn's father hadn't considered the thought of anybody disagreeing with him.

"Now you listen to me, Mr. Spencer. This is a police investigation. You won't get involved in this, we'll be there in…"

"However long it's going to take you, it'll be too slow. I can be there a lot faster."

"You're not a cop anymore, Mr. Spencer. You can't get involved in this."

"Those people beat Gus nearly to death. If there is any chance that Shawn is going there, and that this man has anything to do with what happened, I won't sit back and wait for them to do the same with my son. And I can guarantee you that Shawn isn't thinking with any of his little usual clarity right now. He needs somebody to stop him before he does something stupid. Come with the whole cavalry, but you won't stop me from going there."

And with that, he disconnected the call. Juliet stared at the phone in her hands for a moment, then she put the receiver back in its cradle. For a second, she seemed frozen in place, but then she sprung into action as fast as she could.

Lassiter was still in the interrogation room, but that would have to wait for the moment. This was more important than questioning Sue Derringer. She wouldn't run away.

Juliet had finally understood what this was all about. Why Shawn had questioned her about whether or not Kincaid had owned a car. Why he had repeated that question until she had checked the DMV records.

He had wanted to make sure.

Shawn had recognized the name on that phone record, and as somebody who had grown up in Santa Barbara he had made the connection. What had his father said? Shawn was capable of seeing something obvious in front of his eyes.

Well, she wasn't so sure that she shared Henry Spencer's definition of _something obvious_, but now that she had connected the dots, Shawn's hurried exit and Henry Spencer's sudden worry at his son's disappearance made sense.

Dylan Kincaid had called Ben Bratner repeatedly. Always on the days around the attacks. On the days of the attacks, or the days before the attacks.

There was nothing suggesting that those two could know each other socially.

Benny B's was at the other end of the city. There were at least a dozen car repair shops in between the campus and Benny B's shop. So why was Kincaid calling this particular shop?

And the even more important question – why did a man who didn't own a car regularly call a car repair shop in the first place?

As Juliet stormed through the corridor towards the interrogation room, she thought that if the answer to that question was what she suspected it was, Henry Spencer was right. They'd better get there before Shawn did something stupid.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	19. Seeing Red

Here you go with the next chapter, hope you all enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 19 – Seeing Red**

Shawn loved his bike. He really did.

It was his priced possession and he'd go to many lengths for it.

But a Norton Commando wasn't made for subtle approaches, or for stakeouts. Especially not for staking out a car repair shop, where the people working there were bound to have an interest in motorized vehicles of all kind.

So Shawn parked the bike in front of a closed store a block away from Benny B's car repair shop and walked the remaining distance.

Actually, Shawn didn't even know what he was doing here. But the moment his eyes had scanned the printout of Dylan Kincaid's phone records, he had known that this was a lead. Juliet was right, Kincaid made a lot of calls every day, but there was a pattern to it. There always was a pattern to what people did.

You called your girlfriend when you came home for work, or when you were on your lunch break. You called your parents on the weekend, friends in the evening, offices in the morning and so on and so forth.

And of course, if your car needed to be fixed, you called a repair shop. Not necessarily at a fixed time, but if it wasn't anything urgent you most probably called the repair shop in the morning to make an appointment.

But why would Dylan Kincaid call a car repair shop if he didn't even own a car? And why would he call that repair shop repeatedly, most often during the days immediately before the attacks took place?

That was no coincidence, Shawn didn't believe in that kind of coincidence. There was more to it.

Shawn knew Ben Bratner. Or rather, he knew about Ben Bratner. Most people who had grown up in Santa Barbara had at least heard the name before.

Bratner was no criminal, at least not that Shawn knew of. Theoretically he was a respectable businessman who ran his own garage. Benny B's definitely wasn't a chop shop. But it was a car repair shop in one of the more shady parts downtown. Not the kind of place where your average housewife took the family car if the engine stuttered.

Benny B's clientele was different. Definitely not the place where housewives, family fathers and school teachers took their rides if they gave out. But while it was always in the grey areas, as far as Shawn knew, Bratner's business had never been under investigation by the police.

At least not until now.

And that might change quickly if Shawn found out anything that connected the man to the attack on Gus. If that was the case, Bratner could consider himself lucky if he made it to see a judge in the first place.

The fragmented thought that for the first time in his life, his father would probably be glad that Shawn hadn't become a cop shot through Shawn's head. If he was a cop, he'd have a gun right now, and to be totally honest, Shawn didn't know what he'd do if he had a gun.

Nothing good, that was already for sure.

But he didn't have a gun, or any weapon at all. And Shawn didn't want to go in there and start waving a weapon around, anyway. But if he saw or recognized one of the two remaining guys from the attack on the office…

Shawn didn't know what he'd do.

He couldn't guarantee for anything.

He had already lost it twice within a single day, and rational thought hadn't been an option during either of those episodes.

Shawn knew that going on an investigation with his mind in a muddled mess was stupid, not to mention dangerous. But it had been the only thing he could think of. He had been standing right next to Juliet when he had figured out the connection, but strangely enough telling her had not once crossed his mind.

Not until he was sure.

And he needed to be sure before he delivered Bratner to the police. He needed to be sure because this wasn't just any case. This was personal.

If the police found out about Benny B's on their own, all the better. And if they didn't, it was hardly Shawn's fault that they kept missing the obvious.

Shawn crossed the street and approached the car shop. The yard was empty aside from two cars parked near the low wall that separated the car shop from the lot next to it. The car shop looked like most other car shops Shawn had seen in his life – the name Benny B's was written in large blue letters across the front of the building, just above the garage doors. There were four garage doors, two of which were open, and another door on the very right led into the garage's office. Through the two open garage doors Shawn could clearly see the hydraulic platforms behind the doors. One of the platforms was up, with an old red VW bug sitting atop, waiting for somebody to come and do whatever work needed to be done on it. Maybe whoever had been working on it was on a break and would be back in a little while

The second platform had just been put to the ground again and somebody was driving a midnight blue Chevrolet GMT off the platform and towards the open garage door. A man in his mid- to late twenties was standing beside the garage doors. He had spiky black hair, and wore leather jacket and tight blue jeans that were stuffed into a pair of brown cowboy boots.

Cowboy boots? That guy was driving a Chevy truck and this was Santa Barbara, not the wild, wild west! Hadn't cowboy boots been abolished already? Wasn't there a law against wearing them? And if there wasn't, the question was why didn't that law exist?

Shawn slowly crept closer to the garage doors, but he took great care to remain out of sight of the two people who were standing just inside the garage.

Mr. Cowboy Boots certainly wasn't working here. He was a customer, so Shawn didn't pay any more mind to him. The guy who was climbing out of the Chevy and was handing over the keys to Mr. Cowboy Boots however, was far more interesting. He was wearing a blue jumpsuit, so if Shawn had needed any additional confirmation that he was working here, that was it.

But Shawn had no idea whether or not this was Ben Bratner, or how many people were working in the garage in the first place. He was sure that the jumpsuit had a name tag, but he was too far away to be able to make out the name. And while he had heard the name Ben Bratner often enough, he had never actually seen the man and thusly had no idea whether or not this was him.

Standing out of sight behind one of the cars parked in the garage's yard, Shawn watched how the guy in the jumpsuit handed over the keys, said a few words and shook hands with Cowboy Boots. Cowboy Boots got into the driver's seat and started the car as the guy in the jumpsuit shut the door behind him with a grin and another quick remark. The engine roared to life, much louder than even the engine of a Chevy was supposed to sound like, then Cowboy Boots drove out of the garage and off the car shop's lot.

Jumpsuit looked after the car as it drove off, then he turned around and went into the small office to the side of the garage. As soon as the door closed behind the guy in the jumpsuit, Shawn looked around to make sure that there was nobody else around, then he sprinted across the lot towards the office. As he ran past the garage doors, he saw that the garage was empty and nobody aside from the guy in the jumpsuit was around.

The office could be reached through two doors, one leading off from the garage and the other leading into the office from the front of the building. Both doors were closed, but there was a small window beside the door on the front of the building, and that window was slightly open. Shawn quickly and silently hurried past the door and underneath the window, then he slowly straightened up and pushed his head forward until he could look through the window.

Jumpsuit guy was lounging in a chair behind the office's sole desk, his feet in their dirty work boots put up on the corner of the desk with his legs crossed. He was smoking a cigarette, occasionally flicking the accumulated ash into an overflowing ashtray in the middle of the desk which also seemed to serve as a paperweight. There was a computer in front of him, the monitor turned so that Shawn couldn't see it, and in between drags on his cigarette, jumpsuit guy clicked his mouse and typed a few things on the keyboard – labouredly with just one finger.

This wasn't helping Shawn. He didn't know whether or not this guy had been one of the four guys who had attacked Gus and him in the office. Shawn hadn't gotten a proper look at the guy who had been silently holding him back the entire time. And while he had seen the one who had kicked Gus in the head, he hadn't seen enough details to identify the guy.

The general build was the same – the height fit, the weight was about right, and the muscular build fit. But thousands of people in Santa Barbara were built like that. Jumpsuit guy had short, spiky brown hair and was about thirty-five years old, but he had no idea what hair colour Gus' attacker had had or how old he had been. It just wasn't enough to be sure.

All Shawn was sure he could identify were the guy's eyes, and his voice.

He could call him out pretending to be a customer. It was likely jumpsuit guy was going to say at least a few words before he was going to recognize Shawn. A few words would be enough to identify the voice. But that was the problem. If jumpsuit guy really was one of the attackers, he'd recognize Shawn immediately. There was no chance for him to unobtrusively investigate a little so that he could be sure of things before the police came into play.

All he could do was watch, and hope he could come up with a better plan quickly.

For the next few minutes, nothing happened.

Jumpsuit guy got himself a coffee and smoked another cigarette. He printed something out on the computer and pushed another cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray without causing the precarious structure of cigarette butts to collapse, something which Shawn was sure was bending the laws of physics to their limit.

And then it happened.

The phone on the desk rang.

It was a shrill ringing tone, probably designed to be audible even in the garage if nobody was in the office. The sound made Shawn jump, but the guy in the office seemed to be so used to it that he didn't even twitch. With a bored expression on his face, jumpsuit guy turned his desk chair around slightly and reached for the phone.

Shawn didn't know whether his heart was beating so fast in his chest because of the shock of the telephone ringing, or because he was nervous to hear jumpsuit guy's voice. But his heart was thudding away rapidly as he saw jumpsuit guy pick up the phone and bring it up to his ear.

"Benny B's car shop, you're talking to Benny. How can I help you?"

Shawn's insides turned to ice.

He didn't move.

He didn't blink.

He forgot how to breathe.

Ben Bratner's voice sounded cheerful enough, like the voice of a car shop owner happy to help his customer was supposed to sound like.

But Shawn knew that it could sound differently.

He had heard it sound differently.

He had heard it sound low and sharp, each consonant like a knife cutting through nerves as the guy gave Shawn a running commentary of Dylan Kincaid beating Gus up. Shawn had heard the voice sound harsh and rough as it cut off all of Shawn's desperate pleas to leave Gus alone. Shawn had heard it sound cruel and amused as he had chuckled at what seeing Gus beaten like this had done to Shawn.

He had heard it sound cold and detached, though slightly amused and in excited anticipation, right before he had pulled back his leg and had kicked Gus in the head.

Kicked him so hard that Gus' skull broke and an artery ruptured.

Kicked him nearly hard enough to kill him.

Ben Bratner could have killed Gus with that kick against the head, and he wouldn't have cared about it in the slightest bit.

But now he didn't have the cowardly advantage of superior numbers. Right now he was alone, and Shawn was alone. The only advantage Shawn had was the element of surprise, and then he'd see what Ben Bratner was really made of. But he already knew the answer to that. Somebody who attacked others four against one generally wasn't the courageous type.

From inside the office, Shawn could hear Bratner laugh at something the person on the other end of the phone had said.

That did it for him.

He wouldn't stand here and let that guy laugh about some stupid joke as if nothing had happened. Shawn's world was off its axis because of this man, and he was behaving as if everything was in order, and Shawn couldn't stand the thought.

He didn't know what he wanted to do.

He didn't have a plan.

All he knew was that he had to stop the guy from laughing. Whatever it took, he had to stop the guy from laughing.

Shawn was already halfway to the office door by the time that thought had formed in his mind. He stretched his hand out for the door handle when suddenly something wrapped around his stomach and pulled him back. A distant synapse in Shawn's brain sprung to life and sent the message that it was somebody's arm that was holding him back around his middle, and Shawn reacted instinctively.

He rammed his elbow into his attacker's stomach and at the same time knocked his head back. Both his elbow and head struck flesh, and Shawn heard his attacker utter a startled and slightly pained _oomph_.

Shawn froze at the sound. From one moment to the next, his muscles refused obedience until it was clear why that voice that had no business being here was here. He knew that voice, but it just didn't make sense for its owner to be here with him.

And before Shawn had any time to think about what had just happened, a hand closed around his wrist in an iron grip and he was pulled around the corner of the building. A moment later he found himself pressed up against the windowless side wall of the car shop, his father's face just a few inches away from his own.

Henry's forehead was red where the back of Shawn's head had impacted, and the lines of pain around his eyes showed Shawn clearly that his elbow had also hit its mark right into his father's stomach.

Only he hadn't wanted to hit his father in the first place.

He hadn't even known that his father was here.

"What do you think you're doing?" Henry pressed out from between clenched teeth.

Shawn was breathing hard as he tried to focus his gaze on his father and forced his brain to catch up with everything that had happened over the past minutes.

"What?"

Henry's eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing, Shawn?"

"I…it's…he's the guy Dad. He's the one who kicked Gus in the head, I had to…"

"You had to what? Storm in there and get yourself killed?"

Shawn shook his head and struggled to get free, but his father's hold on him was firm and it didn't look as if Henry intended to let go anytime soon.

"It wasn't like that."

"Really? Because that's exactly what it looked like. What would you have done if I hadn't held you back? You'd have stormed in there, wouldn't you?"

"He's the guy Dad. I couldn't just do nothing. I had to do something."

"No Shawn!" Henry's voice wasn't loud, so that they wouldn't be heard by Bratner in his office, but it was sharp enough to let Shawn know that in any other situation, his father would be yelling at him on the top of his lungs right now.

"No, you didn't have to do anything! The police are on their way, they'll be here in a few minutes. Let them handle this."  
Shawn was still shaking his head. "I needed to be sure, don't you understand? I needed to make sure that it was the guy."  
"Well, now you know it. So now we're going to wait for the police."

"But what if it isn't enough? What if there isn't any proof against him?"

Shawn watched as his father closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath, as if he had to collect his strength.

"You identified Dylan Kincaid by his voice. That was enough for a warrant to search his apartment. If you identify Bratner's voice and he's connected to Kincaid through his phone records, that'll be more than enough for another search warrant. And they're going to find something. They always do. No criminal is perfect, Shawn. They only think they are. But they all leave some evidence behind."

Shawn didn't know what he was supposed to say. He didn't even know what he was supposed to think. This was simply too overwhelming. Only a few hours, and suddenly three of the four guys who had attacked Gus had been found. They had names now, faces and voices.

And somehow, that made it even worse.

They weren't faceless monsters anymore, beings with superhuman strength who hid behind ski masks. They were people. The owner of a car repair shop and two college students. Nothing superhuman about that. Just a group of people who acted upon their hate.

And somehow, that was the hardest for Shawn to understand.

That was the thought that didn't go into Shawn's head.

And now that his father was holding him back, Shawn didn't even get the chance to confront Bratner, and try to get the answer to the question that wouldn't leave him alone out of him.

Why?

Because Shawn didn't understand, and the only people who held the answer to that question were those four people. The police would come, they'd question Bratner and take him to the station, then he'd probably get a lawyer and clam up. And Shawn would never know why those people had done this.

"Shawn, look at me!"

Shawn slowly met his father's eyes. Henry was looking straight at him, and when Shawn finally looked up Henry put a hand behind his neck and held his head in place.

"Those guys killed three men in cold blood. They beat Gus into a coma, and they wouldn't have cared if he had died, too. What did you want to do, storm in that office and start a fight with Bratner? Do you honestly think I'd just stand by and watch the same thing that happened to Gus happen to you? Or worse, stand by and watch my own son do the very same thing those bastards did? Do you think I want you to lower yourself to their level? I can't let you do that, Shawn. I won't. This isn't your fight."

"They made it mine the moment they forced me to watch how they beat Gus!" Shawn raised a hand and pointed a finger accusingly at his father. "They made it my business to bring them down when they broke Gus' leg and kicked him in the head and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop them! So don't tell me it's none of my business because it is."

"It isn't your job to go in there and beat the living daylight out of that guy. Damn it Shawn, you pointed two of those killers out to the police and you can identify the third. That's your part in all this, and you'd better let the police handle all the rest."

"I can't. Don't you understand that, Dad? I…this isn't fair." He bit his lips against the emotions that were suddenly and unbidden rising up inside of him. With an abrupt movement he freed himself from his father's hold and took a few steps away from him, towards the back of the garage.

"Shawn?"

Hands buried in his hair, Shawn turned back towards Henry.

"It isn't fair, Dad. They beat Gus nearly to death. You weren't there, okay? You didn't hear Gus scream, and you didn't hear them laugh about it. Do you know what it sounds like when bone breaks? I do, and I won't ever forget it in my entire life. Gus nearly died because of what they did. He nearly _died_. And you want me to sit back and wait for the police to arrest them? Why? So that they can get a lawyer, and a fair trial, and if they're lucky just a few years in prison, out on parole after half their sentence? Why should I want them to be treated fairly if they didn't give a damn about fairness when they attacked Gus?"

"Because that's how the system works."

"I don't give a damn about the system. I want them to go through at least a little of what they put Gus through."

Henry shook his head and stepped up to Shawn. "No. You want to go in there and beat that guy into a bloody pulp because you think that somehow, this is going to make your own pain go away. But it won't." Shawn tired to turn away from Henry, but a hand on his shoulder turned him back again.

"You think that you'll stop hurting if you only hurt that guy in there enough. But that's not true. It won't make you feel any better, Shawn."

"But neither will watching those bastards get a fair trial!"

"It's unfair. I know that. But two wrongs don't make a right. If you lose control now, it won't change anything in the long run. The only thing that will make a difference is if Gus wakes up and starts getting better. That's the only thing that matter right now. Not whether or not that guy in there ends up with a black eye and a few bruises before he gets arrested. He will get his punishment. That's three counts of murder and one count of attempted murder. He isn't going to get out of this. But it's in the hands of the police now, not in yours. Let them do their job."

It sounded so easy. So seductively easy. But it also felt so wrong.

"I don't think I can, Dad."

Shawn turned away again as he felt his throat close up and his eyes mist over. He drew a deep breath to get his emotions back under control, but he was fighting a lost battle.

"It doesn't feel right. Ever since Gus was attacked, I feel that I should have done more. I should have paid more attention to how dangerous this case really was. I should have struggled more during the attack, I should have tried harder to stop them. It all feels as if I should have done more. And this," he gestured towards the front of the car shop a few metres away. "This also doesn't feel as if I had done enough. I found him, but finding him doesn't feel like it's enough."

Shawn rubbed both hands over his face, as if he could rub that feeling of helplessness that was overwhelming him away if he only tried hard enough. But he couldn't. It stayed right where it was, a leaden weight in his stomach that was slowly eating away at him from his insides.

If only he had done something more, then all this wouldn't have happened.

There must have been something more he could have done, because the universe couldn't possible be this unfair to let something like this happen to a good guy like Gus.

And if there was something more he could have done and didn't, he had failed. Why didn't his father understand that he couldn't make up for that failure by simply standing by and watching how the police arrested those guys? It wasn't enough to make up for his failure. Not nearly enough.

A hand settled on his shoulder, and Shawn looked up at his father just as Henry put his other hand against the back of his neck.

"It isn't your fault, Shawn. You don't have to make up for anything you did wrong."

Shawn drew a breath to reply, but Henry cut him off. "No. You're not to blame. But you will be if you do something stupid now."

Shawn felt his father's warm and callused hand squeeze the back of his neck gently. Coming from his father, that was the equivalent of an embrace, and Shawn felt his resolve faltering.

His strength was gone, and with it the fight had gone out of him. He only wanted to curl up somewhere and wait for this whole nightmare to be over. For Gus to be all right again. For those bastards to be locked away and be out of his life forever.

"Come on, let's wait for the detectives. They should be here any moment now."

Shawn drew a deep breath, then finally he nodded. "All right."

The hand on his shoulder and against his neck vanished, and Shawn numbly allowed his father to lead him around the fence onto the neighbouring lot, and back onto the road from there. His father's truck was parked on the road, a little way down the block so that it was out of sight of the garage and the office. They went towards it, and Shawn wordlessly opened the passenger door, climbed in and sat down in the seat with his head in his hands. He felt like a deflated balloon, like someone had suddenly let all the air out of him and it was a hard enough task not to shrink into a crumpled little heap on the passenger seat.

His father leaned against the front fender with his arms crossed in front of his chest and they silently waited until a few minutes later a car drove down the street and pulled up behind them. Shawn didn't look up when he heard two car doors slam shut, or when steps were approaching the truck. He only raised his head from his hands when the passenger door of the truck opened.

"Spencer!"

Lassiter was standing there, glaring down at Shawn from behind his sunglasses.

"What did you think you were doing? Have you completely lost your mind?"

Shawn didn't want to go there. Not that discussion, not again.

"It's him. Bratner, he's one of the guys."

Lassiter didn't look as if he wanted to end the discussion about Shawn's motivations for coming here just yet, but for the moment he seemed willing enough to at least postpone it.

"Are you sure?"

Not that his voice was any more friendly because of that.

Shawn nodded. "Yes. I heard his voice, I'm sure that it's him."

Lassiter stared at Shawn for a few seconds longer, as if he was waiting for any additional information, but finally he turned around and looked over the hood of the truck at Juliet. Shawn hadn't even noticed her standing there until now.

"O'Hara. Let's go."

The two detectives walked over towards the yard of the car shop, two uniformed officers following behind them. Shawn turned and with a surprised frown noticed two more black and whites parked on the other side of the road. Lassiter and Juliet had come with reinforcements. It seemed as if he hadn't given them enough credit. Obviously, they had figured out the connection on their own. How else would they have known to come here? But then, how had his father known to come here? Shawn couldn't imagine that Juliet or Lassiter had called him.

A shadow fell over him, and Shawn found his father standing in the open passenger door, looking down at him with a worried frown on his face.

"Are you all right?"

Shawn shook his head. "No."

He was nowhere near all right. He felt empty and sick at the same time. Slowly, he drew in a long breath through his nose and released it again through his mouth. It didn't help.

"Let's drive home. The police are going to be in touch if they need you for something."

Shawn shook his head again. Merely the thought of driving right now made the bile rise in his throat.

"No."

Strangely, his father didn't argue. He remained standing beside the passenger door, just a few inches away from Shawn as if he was worried his son was going to fall out of the seat any moment and he'd have to catch him. Silently, they silently waited.

Raised voices were coming from the direction of the car shop, though they were too far away for Shawn to make out the words. The two remaining officers went over towards the yard, lingering in the background to interfere in case something went wrong. But nothing did. The raised voices continued, and a few minutes later Lassiter and Juliet appeared again. They walked out of the car shop's yard, Ben Bratner walking between them with his hands cuffed behind his back. He wasn't struggling as they led him over towards Lassiter's car, but he was arguing with Lassiter.

"I told you I have to lock up! Damn it, I can't just leave the shop unattended with the doors wide open! It will be robbed clean within an hour!"  
Lassiter put a firm hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him further towards the car.

"Don't worry about that. Our officers are going to stay here until the crime scene unit arrives. I doubt that burglars are going to rob your shop with the police there!"

Bratner drew breath to respond to that, but at that moment they walked past the truck and he caught sight of Shawn sitting in the passenger seat. He stopped and simply stared at Shawn through the glass of the windshield.

It was like the first encounter with Dylan Kincaid all over again. It was all there, right in Bratner's eyes.

Recognition.

Guilt.

Hatred.

Shawn knew beyond doubt that this man was the man whose voice was haunting him in his nightmares, and if he had had just an ounce of strength left he'd have jumped out of the car and made another desperate attempt at executing his personal revenge before the judicial system got a hold of the guy and let him get off with a sentence that would never be adequate.

But Shawn didn't have any strength left, and his father's hand was on his shoulder again, ready to hold him back just in case. A moment later Lassiter gave Bratner another non too gentle shove. And then it was over, just like that. Bratner was out of sight, loaded into the back of Lassiter's car, and his father's hand left Shawn's shoulder again.

"Come on kid, let's go home."  
The passenger door was shut, his father walked around the front of the truck and got into the driver's seat. Only when he started the engine and pulled the car into the road did Shawn's brain slowly start working again.

"But my bike."

Henry shook his head. "Not now. We can get it later, but I won't let you drive around on your own right now."  
Shawn had a strange feeling of déjà-vu at those words, but he knew a lot battle when he saw one. He blindly reached for his seatbelt, fastened it, and then sank down in his seat as his father drove the car back into the city.

If he didn't have any strength left to fight it, he could as well sit back and let it all wash over him.

* * *

Thanks for reading and as always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	20. Broken Pieces

Here you go with the next chapter.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 20 – ****Broken Pieces**

Dylan Kincaid, 23 years old, college student on a football scholarship with the real chance of making a living in professional sports later on. Parents divorced for ten years, he spent his teenage years in Fresno with his father before moving to Santa Barbara five years ago.

Sue Derringer, 20 years old, sociology student in her second year. She came from a middle-class family, parents married for thirty years now, two older sisters.

Neither of them had a criminal record, a juvenile file or any previous arrests.

Ben Bratner, 37 years old, owner of Benny B's car repair shop in Santa Barbara for the past twelve years. Unmarried, no children, one younger brother who was working with him at the car shop. Bratner had come from a fairly well-off family and had paid off the car shop with the money he inherited from his father at the age of twenty-five.

Before that, he had served two years of a three year prison sentence for aggravated assault. That assault charge had been the end of a promising college career. Bratner had studied engineering in Colorado. With his engineering degree already in reach, Bratner had been charged with aggravated assault after he had started a fight while visiting a club in Denver. He had beaten a young man into hospital because he thought the man had hit on his girlfriend.

Bratner had ambushed the young man on his way out of the club and had systematically beaten the guy nearly to death. The young man had ended up with five broken ribs, a leg that was broken in three places, serious internal bleedings, a broken cheekbone, a ruptured spleen and half his teeth missing. He had been in hospital for over six weeks before released into rehabilitation.

The young man had been black.

Police investigation had looked more closely at Bratner's group of friends during the investigation. While a racist background for the attack could not be proven, Bratner's background in Denver had definitely been. He was a member of a clique suspected of a number of racially motivated crimes in the Denver area. Damage of property, assault, robbery, defamation. A few investigations had been the result, but there had never been any convictions.

But this time there had been a witness to the attack, and Bratner had been sentenced and sent to prison. It had ended his college career, but unfortunately the problem about prison was that inside, the same problems prevailed as on the outside, only in even starker contrast. If a racist went to prison, he had no problem finding likeminded people there.

Bratner had gone into prison to be punished for a racially motivated crime. He had come out a member of the White Resistance, with many new friends and contacts and an even stronger belief in the concept of white supremacy.

Bratner was very intelligent. Before his prison sentence, he had mastered his engineering studies with flying colours and had been close to graduating on top of his class. Seeing that his dream of becoming an engineer had been blown to smithereens by his prison stint, Bratner had thought back on the passion of his youth and had opened up the car shop.

In his little spare time, he had helped organize rallies and concerts for the White Resistance.

Tobias Bratner, 33 years old, Ben Bratner's younger brother. Unmarried, no children, mechanic in his brother's car repair shop. His brother was his only remaining family. Ben had introduced him into the White Resistance after his release from prison.

Dylan Kincaid had – after a long conversation with his lawyer – decided to confess. That was how the police had gotten the name of the fourth attacker.

Sue Derringer hadn't made any statement.

Ben Bratner's interrogation the day after his arrest had sickened everybody who had heard it. Chief Vick, Juliet, Lassiter.

And Shawn.

Again he had been standing in the observation room while Lassiter interrogated Bratner. The man had immediately called in a lawyer, but after Dylan Kincaid's all-out confession had no longer listened to anything his lawyer had advised him to do. He had been radiating the air of a man who, if all else was already lost anyway, wanted to go out with a bang.

He didn't give away the name of his brother, though, or anything about Tobias' involvement in the attacks. But he spoke freely about everything else, and that with the air of a man who held all the answers while everybody else was still in the dark.

Twice during the interrogation, the ever so composed Lassiter nearly snapped and had to struggle to hold on to his control. If anything, bringing out this reaction in the detective amused Bratner even more.

---------------

"Dylan and that girl Sue? They came to the shop one day. Had seen my advertisement on the White Resistance home page. They fancied themselves some real-life racists, can you imagine that?"

He found it so funny he laughed out loud, a deep, gravely sound that seemed so out of place in the setting of the interrogation room. "Just a bunch of kids looking for a different playground, that's what they were. They didn't have what it takes. They didn't have the pride, or the beliefs. You know why Dylan fancies himself a racist? Because his ex took off with a nigger! Can you believe that? He let her take off with a goddamn nigger and suddenly he's a theoretical racist? If that had been my woman, I'd have gone after that bitch and that nigger and made sure that they never fuck anybody again. I certainly wouldn't have started browsing racist websites. If any bitch dishonours me like that, there's only one way to restore my honour, and that's smacking her nigger-fucking face in, and his face right after that."

---------------

That was the first time Lassiter nearly lost control.

Shawn could sympathize with the head detective. He was feeling sick just watching that bastard sitting there with his aloof grin, watching in amusement how Lassiter struggled hard not to strangle him.

And Bratner loved talking about himself. In fact, he loved talking about himself, and about what he would have done and how he would have handled things so much that it took him endless minutes to get back to the point that was really of interest for the investigation.

---------------

"Sue? Dylan brought her along when I introduced him to some of my friends. She was so smitten with her football star, she'd have jumped off a roof if he told her to. She's dumb. Well, she might be the little intellectual at school, but she knows squat about real life. She's dumb in that regard. But that's not my problem, right? Who am I to question why they decided to do what they do? It's not my problem. But if they want the same thing that I do, who am I to disagree? Dylan kept saying how much he hated blacks, so I decided to take that statement to the test. You know, to see if he was all words, or if there was anything behind it.

"But you've got to give it to Dylan, that guy knows how to deliver a punch. Probably taking steroids, like all football players these days. He isn't exactly the brightest either. A few fries short of a Happy Meal, if you get my drift, but then again we can't all be geniuses, right? And despite his doubtful motivations, Dylan proved to be a worthy tool. Sue, too. Not that those little, well-manicured hands can do a lot of damage, but she makes more than up for that in enthusiasm. She really got into it. I was their mentor, of course it was my task to help them find their way.

"So what if they weren't on the same level than me intellectually. In the end, we all wanted the same thing– get rid of the scum that's keeping us upright white people from living our lives in peace, and without them dragging us down, robbing our homes and raping our daughters. Dylan and Sue said they hated the blacks, and it was a good place to start as any. Blacks, Hispanics, Jews, they're all part of the same scummy residue on the bottom of our society. We have to start somewhere, so why not with the blacks? Everybody who isn't white but who's living their lives as if they were is a threat to white supremacy and needs to be terminated. Those are Adam Wagner's words, and that's what I believe."

---------------

There it had been, the mentioning of the name Shawn had been waiting for. Beside him in the interrogation room, Special Agent Littleton stepped up closer to the glass, his eyes narrowed behind the glasses perched on his nose, watching Bratner intently.

Bratner was a member of the White Resistance, and there was the possibility that he had some ties to Adam Wagner. And if Bratner was already in such a talkative mood, maybe he'd deliver something with which the FBI would finally have enough to find and arrest the bastard.

---------------

"Adam Wagner? Wagner is a great man. And like all great men, only a chosen few are even able to understand him in his times. It has always been like this, but we're working hard to stop it from always being that way. At least he's not a liar. Not like all you in your hypocritical politically correct world. Just look at the crime statistics and then tell me that the world wouldn't be better off without all the blacks and Hispanics killing, robbing and raping us and those we love.

"But of course you can't say that, because you have this pathetic notion that we're all born equal, and that it would not be correct to blame somebody for his skin colour. Isn't that right? I bet it is. I bet you're going to throw some statistics about the connection between crime and social status at me. And you know what? I'm going to laugh into your face! What do you want to do, throw some more money down their greedy throats in the vain hope that they're going to be less criminal then?

"Let me tell you something, detective: they like it. They like living in the scummy outskirts of cities, they like living in the ghettos. They might bitch and moan about it, but in the end it's what they're used to. What, you think they aren't living in shabby little clay huts in Africa, dancing around the fire and chanting up to their chieftains? You can't tell me that those people are fit to live in a civilized society like we do. They're only dragging us down and nobody dares to say a word. Even though there are studies that they're inferior to us. Medical studies, for crying out loud! But our ever-so-correct government doesn't even let the people know that the real danger doesn't come from some far away terrorists, but from the black bastard right the next door!

"It takes people like Wagner to open people's eyes. He's a prophet, and like other prophets he's being persecuted and people try to shut him up because he's telling the truth. I'm proud that I see the message he's trying to convey, and I'm proud that I'm spreading this message. So don't you dare try and talk to me about Adam Wagner, because you don't understand the tiniest bit of what he's trying to do for our society!"

---------------

And that was all Bratner was willing to say on the matter of Adam Wagner.

His home and business computer were still being examined by specialists. Only once that investigation was over and done with would there be any proof whether or not Bratner had been in direct contact with Wagner, and whether or not Wagner had initiated or ordered the attacks Bratner and his friends were responsible for. Until then, all they could do was wait while Lassiter tried to get some more information on the crimes out of the man.

And it didn't seem as if Bratner minded talking about it. On the contrary, he seemed actually keen to talk about it, to brag with what he had done right into the face of the ignorant. He talked about Walter Pritchett, their first victim who had survived. He didn't mention his name, of course not. He didn't know Pritchett's name, had never been interested enough in his victims to care about things like their names or whether they had any family. But he did describe what a mistake it had been to let the man escape like they had. Bratner had never intended for Walter Pritchett to survive.

Bratner talked about David Gerard, Malcolm Baker and Richard Sinclair with not so much as a single trace of emotion in his voice as he described how they had found them, and what they had done. But he didn't answer the one question that was robbing Shawn's sleep at night. He didn't answer why they had done it.

Because the victims were black.

Because they hated blacks.

But that was no answer. None that Shawn could wrap his mind around, at least. But it was all the answer Bratner had. He couldn't explain why they had attacked their first four victims, other than a lethargic _They were black, and they happened to cross our path_. But he had a different explanation why they had attacked Gus.

---------------

"That psychic idiot should have stayed out of this. The moment I saw him on the news I knew that he could mean trouble. I don't believe in this whole voodoo crap, I'm not some dumbass nigger on Haiti who thinks he can raise the dead and read thoughts and stuff. But somehow that guy gets his cases solved. Maybe you should consider becoming psychics yourself, seeing that without his help you'd not have found any of us." He laughed again.

"And it isn't our fault. He didn't heed the warning we sent him. If he had just stayed out of it and renovated his office instead of snooping around, nothing would have happened. But he just couldn't keep his nose out of it. Dylan was in a panic when Sue told him that the psychic and his nigger friend had been snooping around the fraternity house. He was in a panic that they already knew about him, or were about to find out.

"We didn't have any other chance but to reinforce the warning. And believe me, the fact that the psychic was working together with a nigger made it only so much more fun. You should have seen him, it was pathetic really. The nigger couldn't take much, and your little psychic was begging for his life. I swear, if I had told him I'd stop if he licked my boots, he'd have done it. He'd have done that and so much more for the nigger." Bratner shrugged as if all this was boring him greatly.

"I have no idea why, though. The guy was a wimp. A few good kicks and he was already out of it. None of the famous nigger stamina there. And the psychic was bawling, and begging and yelling, just as if it was his girlfriend that was beaten there and not just some nigger. But maybe that's it." A grin spread across Bratner's face. "Maybe the nigger _was_ his girlfriend. Would explain why the psychic was nearly crying by the time I knocked the black bastard's lights out. Maybe he was worried he'd have to look for a new girlfriend, the nigger-loving faggot."

---------------

That was the moment when Lassiter nearly lost control for the second time.

But Shawn didn't even notice. He stormed out of the observation room and barely made it down the corridor towards the restrooms before his stomach turned itself upside down and heaved all its contents back up his gullet. His throat burned and his eyes watered as he heaved dryly, kneeling in front of the toilet in the less than clean stall. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead and his whole body was shaking as he slowly waited for his body to slide back under his control.

He wanted to punch Bratner.

It was wrong, and it wouldn't help anybody, but he still wanted to punch Bratner until he was nothing more than a bleeding heap on the floor of the interrogation room. He didn't care about what Bratner had said about him, about all the infantile implications and suggestions, about the laughs he had had over Shawn's terror during the attack.

But he couldn't stand the thought that this was what Bratner had felt while Gus had been beaten. He couldn't stomach the idea that to Bratner it all had been a huge entertainment programme, laughs and giggles all the way. And that Gus had been nothing more than the main course of entertainment. Not Gus, Gus was his friend, the person who was as good as the brother Shawn had never had, and not a bull in a Spanish arena who was punched and stabbed a little before the torero finally did him in. It was Gus, and the thought that Bratner didn't even care about the person behind his darker skin made Shawn's stomach turn over and over again.

It took a few long minutes until Shawn was able to slowly scrambled back to his feet. On shaky legs he made his way over towards the row of sinks on the opposite wall. He rinsed his mouth with water from the tap and splashed some water on his face. But his legs still felt like rubber, and he supported himself with both hands on the sink as he took a few deep breaths and waited for his heartbeat to slow down again. Behind him, the door to the restroom opened. In the mirror, Shawn could see Special Agent Littleton come into the room.

He didn't feel comfortable that the FBI agent saw him like this, though it was too late to avoid that now. But Littleton immediately stepped up to the sink beside Shawn without even looking at one of the toilet stalls or urinals.

"The interrogation is over for now." Littleton said dryly as he reached up to straighten his tie.

Shawn closed the tap and reached for a paper towel to dry off his face.

"Good. I couldn't have listened to that guy for another hour. Or another minute."

Littleton moved his tie the fragment of an inch to the left, then brushed at nonexistent lint on his shoulders and looked at Shawn in the mirror.

"Unfortunately that wasn't yet all. More detailed interrogations will follow, and during the trial you will certainly have to listen to it all again."

Shawn didn't want to think about that right now. He only wanted this whole thing to be over and done with.

"Did he say anything else about Wagner?"

Littleton shook his head. "No, and I doubt he will."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The agent merely shrugged. "Bratner certainly knows about Wagner. He knows his speeches, listens to what he's preaching. But that doesn't mean he's in any form of direct contact with Wagner. Most likely, he's been taking Wagner's words to heart and decided to act upon them. But I doubt that there is any organized background behind those murders."

Shawn turned from looking in the mirror to looking at Littleton directly. "What?"  
Again, Littleton only shrugged. "There's nothing at all about this case that suggests an organized background. What the suspects have said in the interrogations adds up – they acted on their own. Of course their deeds were racially motivated, and if they listened to Wagner's speeches on a regular basis that might have reinforced the strong racial feelings they had before. But the attacks were too random, too unprofessional. And they were too hidden. Organized racists love to brag about what they have done. They leave symbols on their victims, they brag about their deeds online, they announce follow-up crimes. But these crimes don't fulfil any of the criteria of an organized background."

"So what, they were random attacks and Wagner gets away?"

"I was very doubtful from the beginning that this case would provide us with enough evidence to find and prosecute Adam Wagner. But that doesn't mean we're going to stop, Mr. Spencer. Even if these crimes were totally unconnected to an agitator like Wagner, that doesn't make them any less severe. It won't diminish the punishment either. And sooner or later we're going to get Wagner."

"Yeah, and how many other idiots are going to randomly beat others to death because of what Wagner preaches until you do?"

Littleton didn't reply, he simply looked straight at Shawn as if he wasn't going to answer that question because the answer was obvious enough for Shawn to know. And it was.

Shawn nodded. "I thought as much. Excuse me, I've got to go to the hospital."

Without waiting for Littleton's reply, Shawn left the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Now that the interrogations were over, he had nothing holding him here at the station anymore. And visiting hours in the ICU were about to start soon. His father had driven him to get his bike again the previous evening, leaving him able to move around without a driver again. Shawn left the station, put on his helmet and started the ten minute drive to the hospital.

Traffic was light, and he made good time. He arrived at the hospital with time to spare, though right now he didn't consider it a good thing.

By now he knew that the reason why his father had figured out where he was the day before had been that the Gusters had called him when Shawn hadn't shown up in the hospital. Knowing Winnie Guster, she wouldn't take that faux pas lightly. It wasn't that Shawn didn't care about Gus' condition, on the contrary. There was nothing he cared about more. But to the Gusters it had to seem that way, if Shawn simply ran off because he had something more important to do.

So it was with his heart beating rapidly in his chest that he got into the elevator and rode up to the floor where the ICU was located. The doors opened and when he stepped out he already saw Gus' parents and Billy standing to the side, waiting to be let in to see Gus.

Shawn drew a deep breath and stepped up to them. His father had offered to come along, but it had been Shawn's decision to come alone. He couldn't rely on his father to stand between him and Mrs. Guster forever. This was his battle, and he had to fight it on his own.

Billy was the first to spot him as he stepped out of the elevator.

"Shawn!"

Mrs. Guster and her husband turned around when they heard their son's call, and Shawn felt his steps slow down as Mrs. Guster turned her eyes on him. His throat suddenly felt too constricted to speak. He coughed and nervously shuffled from one foot to the other.

"Mrs. Guster, Mr. Guster. Billy."

Billy smiled slightly, but Shawn didn't even look at him. He had his eyes fixed on a point somewhere between the heads of Mr. and Mrs. Guster.

"How…how is Gus? I mean, has anything changed over the last days?"

Mr. Guster shook his head. "Nothing really changed. But his doctors are satisfied with his healing progress. There's no infection in the leg, and the other injuries are starting to heal as well."

Shawn nodded. "That's good to hear. Listen, Mrs. Guster, Mr. Guster, I know that I should have called yesterday. It's not that I didn't want to visit Gus, and I'm really glad that you're letting me in to see him. So…"

"The police called." Mrs. Guster interrupted him.

"Oh. They did?"

Mrs. Guster nodded. "Yes. Detective Lassiter called yesterday evening. He said they have arrested the men who did this?"

Shawn nodded. "Yes. They have them all now. Three men and a woman. Three of them have confessed, and from what I know, the forensic evidence will be enough to convict the fourth one as well. But they haven't run all the evidence yet."

"But they have them, right? They have them and they won't get away with this?"

There was a note of worry in Winnie Guster's voice, and Shawn quickly shook his head.

"They're not going to get away. Chief Vick said what they have is solid enough for a conviction. Those guys won't get away with what they've done."

"The detective said you led the police to them."

Shawn shrugged awkwardly. "I only told them what I remember. They did all the arresting."

Winnie smiled shakily. "Thank you, Shawn."

She reached for his hand and squeezed it, and Bill Guster clasped a hand on Shawn's shoulder. Shawn felt awkward with their expression of gratitude. Shawn didn't feel that he had earned it. He didn't feel as if he had done anything. Definitely not enough. Not all that he could have, otherwise Gus wouldn't be here in the first place.

After a few seconds Bill let go of Shawn's shoulder, and the four of them waited silently for another few minutes until the door to the ICU opened and Gus' parents were allowed in to see their son. Shawn was left alone with Billy in the meantime.

"They're really going to jail?"

It was surprising how much like a child Billy sounded when he asked that question. Shawn nodded.

"Yeah, they're going to jail. And they won't come out for a long time."

Billy nodded. "Good." There was another short pause. "What are they like?"

"What do you mean?"

"What kind of people are they? That's what I can't wrap my mind around. What kind of people would do such a thing?"

Shawn shrugged. "Shockingly normal people. Two college students, one of them a football player. The owner of a car shop and his brother."

Billy shook his head. "But why? That's what I don't understand. Why did they do this? Why did they start beating up black people all of a sudden? Why did they nearly kill my brother and didn't even bat an eye about it. Why do they think that people are worth less because of their skin colour?"

"I don't know Billy. I've listened to the interrogations and I still don't understand. It's driving me crazy that I don't understand it."

Though a small part of him was actually glad that he didn't understand. The thought that he'd be able to fully understand the reasoning of a racist for killing people was scary. He didn't know what he'd do if it was easy for him to understand that.

Billy didn't seem satisfied with the answer either, but he didn't say anything. The two of them just sat there and waited until Gus' parents came out of the ICU again. It were nearly twenty-five minutes of visit that Shawn was granted today. It wasn't much time, but it was seeing Gus. That was all that counted. Shawn quickly shrugged into the gown the nurse held out to him, waited impatiently until she had tied it behind his back, then he entered the ICU.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


	21. Light

It's time to let this one go. This is the last chapter, and I'll post it together with the epilogue that's following up on it.

I hope you enjoyed the story despite the heavy subject matter. It's my longest Psych story to date, and I had a great time writing it. Thanks for sticking through this with me.

* * *

**Chapter 21 – Light**

Taking the elevator. Getting off on the fourth floor. Waiting until he was allowed to go into the ICU. Putting on the sterile gown. The same procedure every day for the past nine days.

Like clockwork, Shawn had come to the hospital every single afternoon and had spent a few minutes with Gus. Sometimes it had been fifteen minutes, sometimes closer to thirty, mostly something in between. Nearly always, it had been Billy who had come into the ICU together with him. One time, he had gone with Mr. Guster, but all other times it had been Billy who had been standing beside Shawn as they had stared down at the bed.

And all those days, Gus had simply been lying there. He was being fed through a tube in his nose, he was still only breathing because of the ventilator, and the number of monitors around him was still large enough to fill a small electronics store.

But there was progress.

The swellings in Gus' face had gone back somewhat. The side of his jaw was still swollen, as was his nose, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been over a week ago. The bruises had gotten worse though, especially around Gus' nose. Even against his dark skin they stood out, and the bruises that had spread around his eyes from his nose made him look like a racoon.

Shawn only wished that Gus was awake. Comparing his friend's appearance to that of an animal was only funny if Gus was around to protest against it.

_Awake_.

That was the key word.

The doctors were content with Gus' progress, and especially with the development of his head injury. There hadn't been any bleeding after the initial surgery. The skull would take a little time to heal, but the surgery wound was healing and there was no sign of infection at all. No sign of swelling in the brain, either. And Gus' brainwave activity was promising, whatever that was supposed to mean. But it sounded positive, and maybe that was the reason why Shawn didn't need to hear any details. Details might imply a 'but' thrown in somewhere, and Shawn didn't need those.

The case was also wrapped up, with the people who had beaten Gus into this damn coma in the first place behind bars and awaiting their trial. That could take another couple of months, and until then Shawn didn't want to hear another word about those people.

All that was important now was Gus.

And since his doctors were content with Gus' progress, they were letting him wake up. Actually, they had lessened his medication gradually and had stopped the sedation entirely two days ago.

But Shawn hadn't thought it to be quite like this. Gus hadn't been on medication for over two days now. And he still wasn't awake. The doctors said it was normal, that it wasn't going to happen from one moment to the next, but still two days was a bit long, wasn't it?

Of course it was hard to say with only a few minutes of visiting times a day. But Shawn didn't see any real change in Gus' condition since the doctors had stopped the medication. The first day Shawn hadn't expected any change. He knew better than to expect something to happen so quickly. But yesterday had been just the same.

Mrs. Guster had told him that this morning, Gus had had his eyes open. Well, the one eye that wasn't swollen so badly. But that had happened often enough over the past week, whenever the doctors had lowered Gus' medication to keep up his normal day and night rhythm. Gus had never been really awake even during those periods. Well, technically he probably had been awake, but not really conscious.

And that was what Shawn was desperate for.

He needed a sign that Gus was conscious, and that he was aware.

Because the doctor's verdict was still out on the big problem. The one possibility that could still end this whole nightmare with a sucker punch.

Brain damage.

Nobody had spoken about it since Gus' doctor had mentioned it during that first night in the hospital. It was as if it was a curse that would come true if it was spoken out loud, and everybody – Gus' parents, his brother, Shawn – refused to say it.

Brain damage.

But everybody was thinking it.

And only a sign of awareness, any sign of recognition which would show that it wasn't the case would be able to stop those worries.

According to the doctors, Gus should wake up soon. That was all they were able to say. Soon. He should be lucid soon, conscious and lucid enough for a visitor to notice it. Soon. There simply was no telling, there were no standard timeframes for that kind of thing. Gus would probably be slipping in and out of consciousness for a while.

But still, Shawn didn't know for how long he could still stand this. It was wearing on all of them. Gus' parents were exhausted, Billy was exhausted, Shawn was exhausted. They all needed some good news for a change.

Really good news.

But this day's visit started just like all the previous visits had.

When Shawn and Billy were finally gowned up and stepped up to Gus' bed, the first thing Shawn noticed was that Gus' eyes were open. Not so much the right one, that was still swollen, but his left eye was definitely open and Gus was staring straight ahead.

Shawn's heart sped up as he stepped up to the bed.

"Gus?"

But there was no reaction. Gus remained lying on his back, eyes looking up towards the ceiling, though his gaze wasn't really focussed.

"Gus?"

Billy had stepped up to the bed beside Shawn and Shawn hadn't even noticed. Billy was looking down at his older brother with the same mixture of hope and pain visible on his face that Shawn was feeling. This whole situation was probably even harder on him than Shawn had guessed. It was easy not to notice. He and Billy weren't close, and Billy was good at keeping his feelings under a close guard. Billy wasn't merely exhausted. He was hurt, and struggling hard not to let it show how much.

"I guess it's going to take some more time."

The disappointment was thick in Billy's voice. Shawn felt his throat close up at the thought. He couldn't stand the thought of coming here day after day, hoping to find Gus awake and aware, only to have that hope crushed again.

And even worse, what if it came to the worst?

What if there was brain damage, and this was how it was going to be from now on?

What if this was as good as Gus was ever going to get again?

Shawn forced those thoughts down again. He couldn't dwell on them. Not while there was still hope that this wasn't the end yet. After all, this was _Gus_. There simply was no way that Gus wasn't going to be around. Gus had always been around, and he always would. There was no life without Gus in it, at least none that Shawn wanted to imagine. They had made a pact about that, and Shawn intended to see to it that they were going to keep it.

"Yeah," he finally answered to Billy's statement. "The doctors said it might take some more time."

"Some more time, that's all they're saying. Some more time. Not _another day_, or _a week_, no, all they can say is _some more time_."

Shawn looked at Billy and saw how his face had gotten angry. He wanted to say something to make him feel better, but in all honesty he had no idea what he could possibly say. He was feeling the same.

And it was getting harder and harder to visit Gus. It felt awkward to be standing beside his bed with Billy beside him, trying to make conversation as if Gus was awake. It felt wrong. Because Gus wasn't awake, and no amount of pretending was going to change that. And the doctors could tell Shawn whatever they wanted about Gus being aware and able to hear them, it still wasn't the same.

Billy wasn't chatty during those visits, either. He didn't say anything for the most part, other than when he was talking to Shawn. During those minutes in the hospital bed, it was easy to not see Billy as the grown man he was by now, but as the little kid he had been all those years ago. He looked positively lost standing beside his big brother's bed. Like all those times when he had wanted to tag along with Shawn and Gus as a child and they had left him behind.

And Shawn had no idea how to help Billy deal with what he was going through because he had no idea how to deal with all this himself.

He missed Gus.

That was the big truth behind it all. He missed Gus.

Of course there had been times when he hadn't seen Gus or spoken to him in much longer than this. Now it had not even been two weeks and he was going stir crazy about not having his friend around.

Gus was still staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, and the silence in the room was only disturbed by the regular hiss of the ventilator and by the beeping of the heart monitor. Gus' gaze was still unfocussed, and occasionally his eyes would threaten to drop close again, though Shawn was unable to say whether he was blinking or about to drift off again.

"Dude, you really got to get a grip on this waking up thing, you know?"

Joking. It was a last resort. A desperate resort. But it was all he had left.

"I mean come on, how difficult can it be? Listen, if you ever accuse me of being unable to get out of bed at a decent time again, I'm so going to bring this here up, all right?"

Beside him, Billy chuckled, but Shawn knew that his friend's brother felt as little like laughing as Shawn himself did.

"Just…just wake up, all right? We're all worried. Your parents, Billy here, me, even my Dad. Even Lassiter is asking about you occasionally. It's getting creepy, and you know how I am about creepy things." He bit his lip. "I don't like them, and you know that. So finally put those Jedi mind tricks you've been practicing since fifth grade to use, get that stuff out of your system and wake up."

There was no discernible reaction. Of course there wasn't. Shawn hadn't expected there to be one.

But joking out loud was talking, and that was the main thing. If the doctors were right and Gus was aware of the people in his hospital room and their voices, it was something for Gus to hear. And it was far better than standing here talking about the weather.

"Jules told me to say hi. So _Hi_. Once you're out of here and in a normal hospital room they're all going to come for a visit. I bet you ten dollars I can make Lassie bring flowers for you. That should be a bet worth waking up over, right?"

Shawn sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The sterile gown he had been forced to wear again rustled with the movement, and the sleeve was slightly too short, making the fabric pull against his shoulder as he moved.

"The nurse is probably going to kick us out soon." Billy said, the thickness of his voice testament to how hard he was struggling to keep his composure. "We'll drop by again tomorrow, okay? You hang in there until then."

Billy put a hand on Gus' forearm and squeezed for a moment, then he took a step back from his brother's bed. Shawn drew a deep breath.

"When I come back tomorrow, you'd better be awake. Otherwise I'm going to commandeer your car. And don't think I can't come up with even worse things, because we both know that I can. So work on that waking up thing. I'll be back tomorrow."

He turned around to step away from the bed, but he nearly ran into Billy who was standing right behind him.

"Shawn."

There was something in Billy's voice that made Shawn stop.

"What's wrong?"

Billy wordlessly nodded into the direction of the bed, and Shawn turned around again to follow Billy's gaze. Gus was still lying there like he had done all the time during their visit, but Billy wasn't looking at his brother's face. He was looking at his brother's left hand, which was lying at Gus' side. For the past nine days, Gus had been lying like this, on his back with his arms and hands slack at his sides, whenever they had come to visit.

Only now Gus' left hand wasn't lying slack beside his body anymore.

"What's wrong with his hand?"

Shawn smiled, a wide grin that was pulling the corners of his mouth up farther than they had risen over the previous two weeks. Somehow at the same time he felt like crying, though that absolutely made no sense. But Shawn didn't dwell on that strange mixture of emotions right now. There was something far more important occupying his mind.

Gus had moved his hand. It wasn't balled into a fist, not entirely at least. But it looked as if Gus had tried to do just that, as if he had pulled the tips of his fingers towards his palm in an attempt to ball his hand into a fist, only that his strength and muscle control had given up somewhere along the way.

But Shawn understood. He understood perfectly.

He balled his own hand into a fist and gently bumped it against Gus' hand.

"See you tomorrow, buddy."

Billy looked a little bewildered, but for the first time in over a week Shawn actually left the ICU with a good feeling.

Gus had tried to make a fist. A fist bump definitely counted as a conscious movement, something that involved a thought process. It meant Gus had known Shawn was around and had done his best to react to that.

A conscious thought process meant that whatever had happened to Gus' brain, it wasn't as bad as the doctors had said it might be.

It meant that Gus was going to be all right again.

------------------------------

Another ride in the elevator. Getting out on the right floor with a _ding_ of the doors. Shawn went down the corridor to his left and opened the door to room 341 after a short knock. And stopped right in the doorway.

"Dude, where does all this stuff come from?"

Shawn entered Gus' hospital room, two smoothies in a cardboard carrier in his hand, ogling the assortment of flowers, balloons and cellophane-wrapped things that cluttered every horizontal surface in the room. Gus was sitting up in his bed, the remote for the TV in his hand, and he threw his friend an icy glare upon those words.

"I'll have you know that those are presents by people who are worried about my health and wish me a good and fast recovery, not _stuff_. And I have yet to see the present you brought me."

"I grace you with the joy of my presence."

Gus huffed, but Shawn wasn't fazed by it in the least.

"And I bring you smoothies. And food. Those are real presents, not the stuff that's going to wilt in a week anyway."

He put the smoothies down on the turnable tray beside Gus' bed, put his jacket over the back of a chair and randomly picked up one of the cellophane-wrapped things from the bedside table. It was a porcelain cat, lying in a porcelain basket on a porcelain blanket, sleeping.

"That thing is hideous."

Gus reached for one of the smoothies and took a closer look at the cat in Shawn's hand.

"It's from the secretaries at my office. Thanks to _somebody_, they think I'm a devoted and doted cat owner. They even offered to feed Mrs. Pickles while I'm in hospital. But yeah, it's kinda hideous."

Shawn chuckled and put the porcelain cat back again. As he did, his eyes fell onto something else and he picked it up.

"A teddy bear?"

"It's not a teddy bear, Shawn." Gus took a deep drag of his smoothie. "It's a Bee Well-Bear."

And true enough, the bear was holding a honey jar in its paws, and the words _Bee Well_ had been stitched onto the jar. Shawn remembered seeing those in the hospital gift shop. With a shake of his head, he put it back.

"Do I even want to know who gave that to you?"

Gus raised an eyebrow, but silently took another sip of his smoothie and pressed a button on the remote to turn off the TV. Shawn picked up his own smoothie and sat down in the chair beside Gus' bed.

"So, how are you?"

Gus shrugged. "I'd be a lot better if they finally let me out of here."

Shawn chuckled. It had become Gus' standard answer to that question ever since he had been allowed to leave the ICU and had been brought into a normal room. That fist-bump movement in the ICU had been the first sign of awareness Gus had shown. Over the next two days, he had still been in and out of it, his conscious periods getting longer and more obvious with every day. But it had taken another two days until he had been aware and awake for more than a few minutes at a time, and until the doctors had been content enough with his condition to take him off the ventilator.

But compared to the nine days of coma before that, it had been progress all the way.

As it turned out, Gus didn't remember what had happened. The last thing he remembered was coming into the office to find that Shawn had started repainting it, then nothing. Bits and pieces from his time in the hospital, but from the little Gus had said it were more random flashes of voices, light and dark than anything else.

Gus didn't remember being attacked. He didn't remember being beaten until he lost consciousness, and Shawn was grateful that he didn't. It was enough that he'd never be able to forget those minutes, Gus certainly didn't need to be burdened with it on top of everything else.

All he should worry about was getting well again.

And he was slowly getting there.

The swellings were getting down. Gus' nose was still swollen slightly, and the doctors said it had been a clean break that wouldn't leave any traces. Gus insisted that his nose was crooked, but he was the only one who thought he saw that. The bruises were still blooming all over his body, but even those were getting less obvious now.

The only real signs of what Gus had been through was the square gauze bandage over the wound on his head where the doctors had cut open his skull, and his right leg. The wound from the open fracture was healing, and according to his latest x-rays so were the bones, though the latter were aided by the help of about a pound of titanium in their task. It would be a while before Gus could walk without the aid of a crutch or cane again.

And Gus' ribs were still sore, but since he wasn't allowed to leave his bed on his own and his movements were limited, the pain from those didn't really bother him all that much at the moment. Only when he was turning around, but since his parents were still watching over him like hawks, he was mostly lying flat on his back, anyway.

But Gus was getting restless. Shawn could sympathize, he had never been one for extended hospital stays either. It had been a week now since Gus had left the ICU, a fact Gus was constantly reminding everybody about, and he was convinced that he was well enough to leave the hospital.

His doctors disagreed.

His parents sided with his doctors on that one, and Shawn found himself in the strange situation of having to defend the Gusters in front of their son. Because honestly, he didn't think Gus was well enough to leave the hospital yet, either. He couldn't leave the bed on his own, how was he supposed to stay alone at his apartment? Even going to the bathroom was a task Gus wasn't able to do on his own right now. That definitely didn't speak well for his ability to take care of himself.

But Shawn wasn't stupid.

No way he was going to get into that discussion with Gus right now.

He wasn't going to be on the receiving end of a Burton Guster lecture about how he was a grown man who could take good care of himself.

So Shawn remained sitting silently beside his friend's bed and sipped his smoothie.

Contrary to Shawn's previous daily visits, today the conversation between the two friends didn't really get going. Gus was sitting on his bed, watching Shawn as if he was only waiting for the next remark about one of his presents. But Shawn was simply sitting next to the bed, intently sipping his smoothie. After a few long drags all he brought up with loud slurps was air that tasted faintly of oranges and mango.

"What's going on Shawn?"

Shawn put his empty cup down on the turnable tray and looked at his friend.

"What do you mean?"

Gus raised both eyebrows, a gesture that was somewhat less effective now that his hair had grown out somewhat. Besides, it hadn't ever really worked on Shawn before, anyway.

"Whenever you come to visit, it's hard enough to shut you up and get a word in between. So what's bugging you?"

Shawn shrugged awkwardly.

"It's nothing, really."

"Oh yes. Of course not. You simply decided to have your personality removed over night."

Shawn sighed. "I was at the station this morning."

"Is there something new about the case?"

Shawn hesitated. He had been hesitant to talk about the case to Gus at all. It was a blessing that his friend couldn't remember the actual attack against him, and Shawn didn't particularly want to recall that night, either. There were far more interesting and safe things to talk about. Like the weather.

And there was the fact that Shawn still wasn't sure what to think about the events of that night. He was still afraid that if he rehashed the night over and over again, he'd eventually find that one moment where he could have done something more, something to stop this madness before Gus got hurt so badly.

"Shawn?"

Shawn sighed. "Agent Littleton has officially closed the case. The FBI is no longer investigating any potential connection to Adam Wagner."

Gus looked at his friend for a long moment, then he shook his head with a smile.

"I don't think this is funny, Gus."

Gus shook his head. "No, it's not. It's anything but funny. But I'm actually a little astonished that you thought this case was going to end with his arrest in the first place."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Shawn got up from his chair and started pacing up and down at the foot end of the bed.

"It's just not fair!" Shawn exclaimed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's not fair that this guy can spread his hatred all over the internet and gets off scot-free. Those four idiots killed people because of what he said, and he doesn't get punished for it. There's no fairness in that!"

"First of all, those four idiots didn't kill people because Wagner told them to. They killed people because they were just that. Idiots. Racist idiots. Idiots who are filled with hate and acted onto that. Sometimes, life is like that, Shawn. Not every case ends with you catching the bad guy who pulls the strings in the background. It was four people who committed these crimes, and those four people are behind bars now. Thanks to you."

Shawn shook his head. "But he's still out there somewhere, making his hate-speeches. How long until the next group of ideologically blinded idiots decide to put whatever he says to the test? You can't tell me that it's fair."

"No." Gus looked at Shawn until his friend stopped pacing and looked at him. "You're right. It isn't fair. And I'd love to see Wagner behind bars sooner rather than later. But even if he's arrested, that won't solve the problem, either. If Wagner is gone, how long do you think it's going to take for the next one like him to take his place? Agitators like Wagner are only part of the problem. The much bigger part are the people on the other end, the ones who listen to him and believe what he says.

"But no matter who you arrest, you're not going to stop the hate, Shawn. You can't stop people from hating."

"Oh no?" Shawn shook his head and sank back down in his chair. "And that is the wisdom you gather over years of school-teachers and landlords discriminating you? Maybe I'd be able to understand it if you had decided to share those experiences with me a little earlier!"  
Gus sighed and awkwardly shifted around on the mattress before he finally sank back against his pillows.

"Do you know why I never told you about it when somebody hated on me because I was black?"

"Because I couldn't have done anything about it."

"No."

Shawn's head snapped up. "That's what you told me just two weeks ago."

Gus sighed and nervously rang his hands. "That wasn't the whole truth."

Shawn couldn't quite believe his ears. Gus didn't lie to him. Not about the things that mattered, anyway. "So what is the whole truth then?"

Shawn's voice gave away the fact that he was angry, but right now he didn't really care about it. Gus looked at him for a long moment, then he sighed again.

"Of course you couldn't have done anything against people discriminating me because I'm black. You couldn't have done anything back in high school, and you couldn't do anything right now. But the reason why I never told you about it was that I didn't want it to become a matter."

Shawn shook his head. "But it should be. You're my friend, if something like this happens to you I want to know about it."

"That's exactly the reason why I didn't tell you, Shawn. I don't want to get by in life on the minority card. I didn't want to go to college on a minority scholarship, and I don't want people to treat me any different because I'm black. I'm more than just my skin colour."

Shawn couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What, and you think that to me you're not?"

Gus shook his head. "That's not what I'm trying to say, Shawn. But for all my life, there have always been those moments when I realized that people were treating me differently because I was black. And I didn't want that. I didn't want to be treated in a certain way because of my skin colour. I never wanted to use it to get an advantage, and I never wanted people to use it against me. I wanted to be seen for who I am, and I wanted to be treated like everybody else. And I learned that people just can't do that. It shouldn't matter what colour somebody's skin is, but the sad truth is that to most people it does.

"To you it never mattered. You've never been my friend _because_ I was black, or _despite_ the fact that I was black. You've always been my friend simply because you wanted to be my friend. It was never an issue between us one way or the other. And I didn't want it to become an issue between us. That's why I never told you about things like that. Not because I thought you didn't care, but because it never mattered between us what colour my skin is, and I didn't want it to matter."

Shawn just sat there, a frown on his face as he tried to digest his friend's words. Of course it never mattered. It hadn't mattered when he had first befriended Gus, and it had never mattered after that. Gus was Gus. There were a lot of things that defined him, but his skin colour certainly wasn't one of them.

But that didn't mean that Shawn was totally ignorant to the fact that Gus was black. He wasn't blind, after all.

"Dude, you don't have to mollycoddle me about this stuff. I'm a grown man. And you can believe me that if somebody tries to hurt you, they will have to deal with me. No matter if they do it because you're black or because of something else. I don't like the thought that there's things you're keeping from me."

Gus actually laughed at that. "Shawn, there's plenty of things you don't know about me."

"All the better that you're not going to get out of here for a little while yet." Shawn leaned back in his chair with a grin and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "That way you have all the time in the world to spill your secrets. I swear, if there's another marriage you're keeping from me, there will be hell to pay."

Gus laughed. "No further marriages. No illegitimate children. At least none that I know of. No skeletons in the closet."

"Oh, I highly doubt that. We all have our skeletons in our closets. Mine is actually called Ernie, I got it from E-Bay."

"Shawn!"  
Shawn raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "I got it for the office. It was actually meant as a surprise. I was thinking we could use it as a coat rack."

"Gosh, the office." Gus ran a hand over his head. "How bad does it look there now?"

Gus grimaced at the thought of their devastated office, but Shawn only smiled.

"Oh, don't you worry about the office."

"Thanks for saying that, Shawn. If there is anything that's bound to make me worry, it's you telling me not to worry."

Shawn sighed. "Oh, ye of little faith. Believe me that the office is looking just fine."

"What, you took the time to finish painting it?"

Shawn shrugged awkwardly. "Not really."

Gus frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Those guys called about the window while you were still in the ICU. And because I wanted to go to the hospital when they said they'd drop by, Dad agreed to meet them at the office. The next time I saw him, he was scrubbing paint off his hands."

"Your Dad painted the office?"

"Yeah. I mean, I didn't ask him to, he was only supposed to watch the guys while they fit in the new window. But he said since everything was taped off anyway, it didn't take much time to do it. And he said that this way, at least it got done right."

Gus rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. Shawn also thought it was best to let the matter rest. It had been one of his father's typical gestures – he had wanted to do something nice and had finished painting the office for them. But since Henry Spencer didn't do nice gestures, he had wrapped it up in the reasoning that this was the only way to see it get done right. Shawn knew how it was meant behind the gruff delivery, and that was all that counted. No further discussion needed.

"You'll never guess who dropped by for a visit this morning." Gus' voice interrupted his musings.

"Jamie Lee Curtis!"

Gus rolled his eyes. "I told you that you won't guess it Shawn, so why do you even try? Besides, I meant real people."

"You wanna tell me that Jamie Lee Curtis isn't real? Let me assure you that _Halloween_ was no cartoon."

"Okay, not real people, but people we really know. In person. Tom dropped by for a visit."

"Without Jerry?"

This time, the eye-roll was nearly up to Gus' usual standards. "Tom. My boss. You might remember him? The weekend retreat that you so spectacularly busted me out of by inventing my square-dancing, hip-breaking grandmother?"

Shawn didn't want to tread too deeply into these waters. The last time they had talked about Tom, Gus had not exactly been in a good mood.

"So what did he want?"

Gus shrugged. "You know, the usual. Drop by. Bring me some chocolate. Wish me a speedy recovery. Tell me how shocked everybody was by what happened to me. Oh, and he informed me that he now knows the truth behind that – and I quote – _little white lie about my grandmother_. Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Shawn didn't care to.

He didn't care to elaborate on his visit to Tom a few days ago, when he had told Gus' boss that Gus had only gotten out of the retreat to help out his best friend, that the grandmother thing had not been Gus' idea and that Gus had only played along so that Shawn wouldn't get into trouble.

He also didn't care to elaborate on the fact that he had told Tom to take a closer look at Gus' sales statistics and that Tom was an idiot if he didn't see that if there was one person in Central Coast Pharmaceuticals who didn't lack commitment to their job, it was Gus – who turned out to be their second best salesman in Santa Barbara despite the fact that he was working a second job on the side.

And he most certainly wouldn't comment on the fact that Tom wasn't only easily swayed by fictitious sick grandmothers, but that he was even more easily impressed by his employee's devotion to help a friend, even if it lead to said employee missing out on an important weekend filled with pamper poles and trust exercises.

No, Shawn didn't care to elaborate, so he simply shrugged and stayed silent. Gus tried to stare him down, but the success rates of that were even worse than an ice-cube's chances under the midday sun. After a few seconds, Gus gave up and sank back in his pillows.

"I swear, if Tom suddenly asks about the wellbeing of another family member I wasn't aware of, I'm going to kick your sorry ass from here till doomsday."

Shawn grinned. "No family members, I promise. Besides, I don't think you're going to be kicking anybody's ass in the near future. They don't even let you get out of bed alone."

Gus sighed dramatically. It nearly conveyed enough unjust suffering to be convincing, but only nearly.

"I keep telling them that I'm fine. I don't need to stay here for any longer."

Shawn laughed. "Yeah, right. You're patched together in all possible places, but you're fine."

"I've seen you discharge yourself AMA in much worse conditions!"

Shawn shrugged. "Yes. But then again, as my Dad likes to point out, I'm an idiot. You on the other hand are a responsible adult. Come on, we've been practicing these roles for over twenty years now, you can't just change the script all of a sudden."

"It's not like my Mom is going to let me get myself discharged, anyway. Not before the doctors say it's okay, at least."

"And as scary as it is to hear me say that, I think your mother is right."

Gus grimaced and shook his head. "You know what she said this morning? I should consider growing my hair out like Billy does now that I'll have that scar."

He gestured at the gauze patch covering the incision to his skull.

Shawn shook his head. "Dude, no way. You need to show it off. Chicks dig scars."

Gus threw a pointed look at Shawn's chest, and Shawn knew that he was looking right at his own scar even though it was covered by his plaid shirt and the grey t-shirt underneath. Unconsciously, he raised a hand and rubbed at his chest.

"Well, they don't if you look as if you had a heart-transplant. That only earns you those sad and pitiful looks. But a scar on the head practically screams _tough guy_, and we both know that chicks dig bad boys and tough guys."

"Only you Shawn would consider the effect a surgical scar has on a woman."

Shawn shrugged. "Part of my charm, I guess."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Lassiter officially took my statement yesterday."

Shawn frowned. "Didn't he take that a few days ago already?"

"He dropped by with all the official papers yesterday, just a few minutes after you left. Not that I had much to say, though. It's not as if I can really remember anything."

"Be glad that you don't."

"It might be helpful if I did."

Shawn shook his head. "No. They got all the forensic evidence they need to convict these guys. Three out of four confessed. They don't need your statement for anything."

Gus frowned at the suddenly harsh tone in Shawn's voice, but Shawn didn't even notice. He stared down at his shoes, trying to think of a way to get this conversation back into safe waters as quickly as possible.

"Shawn?"

"It's nothing."

"The hell it is. Five minutes ago you were proclaiming my right to have no secrets. So spill. Why does it bother you so much that I can't remember the attack?"

"It doesn't bother me. I'm glad that you don't."

"Shawn!"

Shawn shook his head with a long sigh. "It's hard to explain, all right?"

"Try me."

Shawn sighed. "I'm glad you don't remember. The police don't need you to remember, they got enough to convict the guys without your statement. And you don't need those memories, believe me. You really don't."

Gus nodded. "But you want me to remember."

Shawn bit his lip and looked everywhere but at his friend's face. "Yeah."

"But why?"

Shawn didn't want to answer the question. He really didn't. But this was Gus, and if there was anybody he could talk to about this, then it was Gus. Finally, he drew a deep breath.

"Because…if you remembered you would know whether there was anything I could have done."

He rushed those words out as fast as he could, just so that they were finally out.

"What?"  
Gus was looking at Shawn with a confused frown on his face, but Shawn wasn't looking at him.

"Shawn, what is this all about?"

Shawn shrugged awkwardly. "I just keep thinking that…that there might have been something else I could have done. Something to stop them."

"That's what this is all about? You're blaming yourself for what happened?"

"Wouldn't you? You got beaten nearly to death right in front of my eyes, and all I ended up with were a few bruises. Of course I'm asking myself whether I could have done something else."

"But you couldn't."

Shawn shook his head. "How can you say that if you don't remember a single second of what happened?"

Gus shook his head with a smile. "I can say that because I know you. Half an hour ago you said that if somebody tried to hurt me, they'd have to deal with you first. And I know you mean it. I trust you, Shawn. I know that you did what you could to stop them."

Shawn shook his head. "You think it's that easy?"

"I know it's that easy. I wouldn't stand to watch anybody beat you up, either. I don't want to hear another word about this nonsense, all right? You're not to blame. You weren't the one who beat me into a coma. It was those guys, not you."

That was what everybody had been telling Shawn. Chief Vick, Juliet, his father, everybody.

Strangely, only now that Gus said it did Shawn really listen to the words.

Billy had told him that he was the only one who really knew the answer to the question whether there was anything else he could have done. But no matter how much he had thought about it, Shawn hadn't found a definite answer. He hadn't been able to convince himself that he had done all he could to help Gus. Maybe Billy had been wrong. Maybe Shawn hadn't been the only one who knew the answer to the question.

Shawn still wasn't sure. But Gus was. And maybe that was enough. For the moment, it definitely was.

_The End_


	22. Epilogue Brotherhood II

**Epilogue**

_"Best friends are the siblings God forgot to give us" – Anonymous_

In the end, Gus had to stay in the hospital for four and a half weeks, all in all. The last week consisted of Gus constantly whining and complaining about wanting to be released. Everybody was relieved when the doctors finally deemed him well enough to go home again. Even Gus' mother could eventually be convinced that her son wasn't going to drop dead any second just because he was no longer under 24-hour supervision.

Billy flew back to Connecticut soon after Gus was released from the hospital, with the promise to be back for Christmas this year.

Three weeks after Gus' release from the hospital, the bruises and swelling had gone down at least in all visible places. His missing tooth had been replaced. The only visible sign of his injuries was the cane he still used, and the limp he had while walking. His leg was still in a brace, but he was allowed to put weight on it by now. Aside from that, everything seemed to be back to normal.

On first sight.

The trial against the four people who had nearly killed Gus was still months away. There was no reason to be thinking about them, or what they had done. Not until the trial brought that all up again, anyway.

But below the surface, not everything was as fine as it seemed. It wasn't always there, but there were moments when everything suddenly flared up again unbidden.

Shawn paid more attention to detail than most other people anyway. But ever since that attack in the office, he found himself watching everybody just a tad bit more closely, trying to look into their heads and see what they were up to. If somebody was staring at Gus for some reason – which had happened even more often while his tooth had not yet been replaced and the bruises had still been visible on his face – Shawn remembered their faces, their car plates, the way they moved, everything.

He couldn't help himself.

Gus had nearly died once, and he wouldn't let that happen again if there was anything he could prevent. Most of the times, Gus didn't notice, or if he did he didn't comment on it.

At times Shawn felt that he was getting paranoid about all this, beyond his ability to help it. A few days ago he had nearly lost it when somebody had called out a simple "Hey you!" after him an Gus in the empty and dark parking lot of the movie theatre. Shawn had found himself standing between Gus and the guy running towards them without conscious thought, his hands balled into fists in his pockets. As it turned out, the unknown shouter was a gangly teenager who had come running after them because Gus' keys had fallen out of his pocket.

A harmless enough situation, something Shawn wouldn't have spent just one thought on just a few weeks ago. And right now it was enough to freak him out. Enough to freak him out so much that Gus noticed, too.

Not that they talked about it. If there was one thing they didn't talk about, then it was that.

Shawn was ready and willing to talk about it if Gus wanted, but for as long as Gus didn't show any incentive to talk about what had happened, Shawn certainly wasn't going to bring it up.

It was a silent agreement.

And seeing that Gus didn't remember the actual attack, there didn't seem to be the need to break that agreement.

It was hard to tell how Gus was dealing with all this. On the outside he was behaving like he always did. Not that there was any need to behave any differently in his daily life. For the most part, Gus didn't. But Shawn had been Gus' friend for too long to ignore the subtle signs.

Like Gus dropping by.

Now, there was nothing that unusual to Gus dropping by. And since they had started working cases again they were hanging out with each other for most of their free time anyway, investigating and discussing things.

But it were the visits to Shawn's apartment in the evening that spoke volumes. The unannounced visits, because unannounced visits were a thing Burton Guster normally wasn't capable of. But it had happened at least once a week since his release from the hospital that Gus suddenly stood in front of Shawn's door without prior announcement. Depending on what time it was, he brought takeout food or a movie with him, which they ate respectively watched without talking about Gus' reason for dropping by.

It was the beer intake that was a dead sure indicator on Gus' mood. An evening visit accompanied by soft drinks meant that Gus was simply looking for some company. An evening with dinner accompanied by a beer meant that Gus was going to stay the night. And the thing was that Gus didn't stay because he had drunk a beer, he drank that one beer to have an excuse to stay.

But he made no attempt to talk about why he needed that excuse in the first place, and subtle probing didn't lead to anything, either. It was Gus' turn to start talking about it if he wanted to, and until he did all Shawn could do was wait.

Today was one of the evenings when Gus had dropped by to stay. There had been a _Back to the Future_ marathon on TV, and they had silently watched Marty McFly and Doc Brown jump back and forth in time while wolfing down Chinese takeout. All in all, a good way to spend the evening, especially since Gus didn't mind Shawn's running commentary of the movies.

Gus's second bottle of beer remained half-full and went stale as a young Michael J. Fox battled the Wild West. Gus' alcohol intake had been little and slow enough over the entire evening so that theoretically he could have driven home on his own. But as the final credits rolled, he wordlessly accepted the blanket Shawn handed him and started to get comfortable on the sofa.

In all honesty Shawn didn't know what difference Gus saw that made him prefer staying on Shawn's sofa over staying in his own bed. It wasn't that Gus needed company for the entire night. But Shawn knew his friend well enough not to question it. Sooner or later Gus would start talking.

But obviously not tonight.

After making sure that Gus and his leg-brace had arranged themselves comfortably on the sofa, Shawn went into the bedroom, undressed down to boxers and t-shirt, and went to bed. Three movies in a row and Chinese takeout were taking their toll, and before he knew it, his eyes dropped close and he fell asleep.

Only to wake up what felt like mere minutes later, with his heart beating fast in his chest. Shawn didn't know what exactly it was that had woken him, but he threw back his blanket and got out of bed without wasting a conscious thought on it.

When he came into the living room, he could see Gus' silhouette on the sofa, sitting up with his head in his hands. The sound of heavy uncontrolled breathing made it clear that Gus was wide awake, but hadn't been for long. Shawn slowly stepped into the room and walked around the sofa.

Gus didn't look up as Shawn sat down on the sofa beside him and turned on a dim light. He was simply sitting there, the blanket a tangled mess around his waist with his braced leg sticking out awkwardly. His shoulders heaved as he struggled hard to get his breathing back under control.

So much for Gus not remembering anything.

So much for everything being just fine.

And now Shawn finally had the explanation why his friend had been loathe to stay home alone some days. If this happened regularly, Shawn could sympathize. He only wondered why it had taken him so long to notice it.

Unfortunately, there had been nothing in the handbook about what to do in this kind of situation.

"You all right, buddy?"

Which was the most stupid question, but it was all Shawn could think of at that moment.

Gus raised a hand away from his face and turned it towards Shawn, palm outward. The message was clear even without words. Shawn settled back and helplessly watched how Gus struggled for each breath, trying in vain to slow his breathing. But no matter how much Gus struggled, he couldn't stop his deep heaving gulps turning into sobs.

Shawn got up and went back into his bedroom. He took the blanket off the bed and returned into the living room. On his way to the sofa, he grabbed the remote, then he sat back down right beside Gus, who was still sitting in the same hunched position on the sofa with his head in his hands.

Gus still was struggling hard to keep back his sobs. Which was ridiculous, really. Shawn was sitting right beside him, it wasn't as if he was deaf and blind. But instead of saying anything, Shawn wordlessly pulled his blanket over his legs, and with the remote in his right hand he silently put his left hand on Gus' back, right below his shoulder blades.

Gus was tense, and Shawn could feel the tremors running through his muscles as he took one gulping breath after another. At least his breathing was coming a little easier now, and though his friend still had his face buried in his hands, Shawn picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

"I went a little crazy with the Tivo season pass this week. You have the choice between _Wrestlemania _or a _Married with Children_ marathon."

After a second, Gus lifted his face from his hands and turned slightly to stare at Shawn, and despite the reddened eyes his glare didn't lack any of its usual strength. Shawn shrugged and pushed a button.

"_Wrestlemania_ it is then. Though I for the life of me don't understand your aversion against Al Bundy."

Gus just shook his head and leaned his head into his hands again as the TV screen flared to life.

By the time the first contestants had entered the ring, Gus started to shift around. Putting his braced leg up on the low table in front of the sofa he pulled his own blanket back over his legs. But he wasn't watching the action on the screen, he was looking down at his hands as he nervously twisted and kneaded his fingers. Shawn kept his eyes trained on the TV, but he wasn't really following the events at Wrestlemania, either. Not with Gus sitting just inches away, struggling with whatever it was that had torn him out of his sleep.

And it didn't take a genius to guess what Gus' nightmare had been about.

But they silently sat there, Shawn staring at the TV with his hand against Gus' back, and Gus staring down at his hands.

By the time the first championship fight of the night was about to start, Gus took a deep breath and straightened up.

"I still don't remember anything. Not while I'm awake, anyway. It's the dreams. I mean, I don't have those dreams every night, not by a long shot. And I can't really remember them. But…they're wearing me down, and I'm just so sick and tired of being afraid to fall asleep…"

Eyes trained on the TV in front of him and his hand against his friend's back, Shawn listened as Gus talked it all off his chest.

Sleep was overrated, anyway.

* * *

OOOOOOOOOOO

**The End**

OOOOOOOOOOO

* * *

Thanks for reading. And one last time, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.


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